


CMO's Log - A to Z

by Proudmoore



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Reader Insert, Sickfic, Whump, medical writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 12:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 50,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudmoore/pseuds/Proudmoore
Summary: A collection of fics, each inspired by a different letter of the alphabet, detailing the sorts of things Leonard McCoy deals with on the Enterprise.  Reader insert.





	1. A is for Allergies

You had thought that after the first incident, the crew would have learned very quickly not to bring tribbles onto the ship. Clearly, though, someone hadn’t learned their lesson and that was how you’d wound up wading through a knee-high tide of the little creatures, wincing every time one chattered at you as you passed by on your way to med bay.  
  
You’d awoken this morning with horribly congested sinuses, an itch in your throat, and a cough that sounded like you were trying to bark and failing miserably.  You had sat up, wondering where you could have gotten sick, and were startled to find a mass of small, fuzzy, purring creatures filling your quarters to mid-calf level.  Navigating through your suite had been challenging, to say the least, but you’d made it out eventually.    
  
That’s where you find yourself now – you’re on your way to med bay, sniffling and sneezing, trying to avoid spreading the contagion in such close quarters as you sidestep piles of tribbles that appear to be growing by the minute.  

It takes you three times as long to reach the turbo lift, and you groan as it opens to reveal more tribbles.  You smile wryly to a couple of fellow officers and sniff into the tissue you’re holding, your eyes watering as the group of you ride down a few floors together.  
  
You step out of the lift and make the short trip to med bay, nodding gratefully at a crewman who has cleared the path for you with a wide push broom.  You hop over a short wall of tribbles and step through the doors into med bay, thankfully finding fewer of the creatures in the sterile space.  
  
A few frantic nurses are running around in the area, picking up and sweeping away as many tribbles as they can get their hands on so the creatures aren’t hindering the doctors as they work.  It’s futile, however, as it seems that any time they remove one of the fuzzballs, another two replace it.  You smile consolingly at Christine Chapel as she rushes by you and nod your thanks as she points toward Leonard’s office, showing you where he’s at.  
  
You beeline for his office, knocking once before opening the door and squeaking in before any tribbles can find their way in with you. His office is blissfully empty of the creatures and you sigh in relief, landing your gaze on a very harassed-looking CMO and having to stifle a giggle.    
  
“Problem?” You ask, your voice hoarse.  
  
You marvel at how quickly his entire demeanor changes when he realizes that something is amiss with you.  He stands from his chair as you make your way over toward his desk and he meets you opposite his seat, taking your hands in his.  
  
“Are you alright?”  He asks.  
  
“No,” you admit for once.  “I think I caught a cold.”  
  
He frowns at you, guiding you around so that you have your back to his desk, taking his hands out of yours and pressing at your hips to encourage you to sit up on the desktop.  You do as he wordlessly asks and look up at him just in time for him to press a hand to your forehead.  You close your eyes as he checks for a fever, relaxing into his touch as his hand slips down to your neck and the other one comes up to meet it, feeling your lymph nodes.  
  
“I don’t think you’re sick,” he murmurs as he finishes his exam.  
  
You open your eyes again, blinking blearily up at him, sniffing for emphasis.  
  
“It doesn’t take a doctor to see that something’s wrong with me,” you say pointedly.  
  
“Oh, I didn’t say there was nothing wrong with you,” Leonard shoots back.  “I just don’t think you’re sick.”  
  
Reaching around you, he picks his tricorder up off of his desk and activates it.  The instrument whirs as he runs it over your body and he smiles as he glances at the readout.  
  
“Just as I thought,” he says with a contented grin.  “Your histamine and leukotriene levels are through the roof.”  
  
“In English,” you say with exasperation. “Damn it, Leonard; I’m a botanist, not a doctor.”  
  
He gives you a withering look as you use his own line against him and then sets aside the tricorder, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.  
  
“You don’t have a fever or any swelling in your lymph nodes,” he explains.  “But your MAST cells are in overdrive.  Sweetheart, you’ve got allergies.”  
  
You furrow your eyebrows.  You don’t have any allergies as far as you’re aware and you can’t imagine what could possibly have set the reaction off.  As you wonder, you hear a chattering from behind you and you glance over your shoulder.  Somehow, a tribble has found its way onto the doctor’s desk.  
  
“You have  _got_  to be kidding me,” he growls at the offending creature.  
  
You laugh, but the sound is cut off as you realize what sent your immune system into overdrive.  
  
“Oh,” you say flatly, realizing you’re going to be surrounded by your trigger for the foreseeable future.  
  
It’s Leonard’s turn to chuckle as he recognizes your realization and he takes your hand, tugging on it gently.  
  
“Come on,” he encourages.  “I’ll give you something to get you through the day. Hopefully by the time it wears off, someone will have figured out how to deal with these little monsters.”  
  
You chuckle and nod, hopping off of his desk and reaching out to pick up the tribble on his desk.  Before you can, however, he swats at your hand, discouraging you.  
  
“I don’t care if they’re cute,” he argues. “You don’t need to encourage them.”  
  
You’re still laughing as he escorts you out of his office and toward one of the treatment rooms, and Leonard is just glad that you can find some humor in the situation, even if you do feel less than your best.


	2. B is for Bruises

Dr. McCoy has been staring at you all day. You’ve felt his gaze on you periodically since you first walked into med bay this morning for your shift, and you have no idea what his issue is.  You’ve avoided him as much as possible, sticking with Dr. M’Benga instead, helping Geoff out with exams and procedures.  You can’t avoid him any longer, however, as the shift begins to wind down and he beckons for you to join him 

Setting your PADD down at the desk, you move over toward him, feeling vulnerable in naught but your Starfleet-issued uniform dress as his eyes run over you from head to toe.  You walk past him and into the exam room beyond as he gestures for you to move inside and you turn to face him as he follows you in, keeping your gaze averted.  
  
“What’s going on, nurse Y/L/N?”  He asks.  
  
You furrow your eyebrows in confusion and finally glance up to look at your boss, seeing the mingled concern and thinly veiled anger in his eyes.  
  
“What do you mean?”  You ask worriedly.  “Has my performance today been less than satisfactory?”  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“Not at all,” he assures you.  “I mean the bruises.”  
  
Your heart sinks and your fists clench as you realize what has him concerned.  You glance down at your legs where there are several discolored spots of varying sizes and shapes strewn across your skin.  You have them on your arms, too, but at least those are hidden by your long sleeves.  When you fail to answer, the doctor speaks up again.  
  
“Is someone hurting you?”  He asks, his voice soft but insistent.  
  
Your eyes widen in surprise and you shake your head.  
  
“No!”  You assure him.  “Oh, no, not at all.  Really.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow at your haste to respond and moves over to the rolling stool near the bio bed.  Sitting down so that he’s nearer to your level and less intimidating, he beckons you closer.  
  
“Look, it may be none of my business, but as your CMO and your friend, I had to ask,” he says gently.  “You know you can talk to me about anything, Y/N.”  
  
You close your eyes for a moment and sigh, nodding.  You smile as you open your eyes again and you move to the bio bed, hopping up to sit on it, looking down at Dr. McCoy from your now-lofty height.  
  
“There’s no one around  _to_ hurt me, if you must know,” you murmur, smiling wryly at your bachelorette status. “I just keep waking up with bruises all over the place.”  
  
You pull up the hem of your dress a little more, exposing the litany of bruises on your upper thighs as well, with the latest of them showcasing a dark, angry shade in stark contrast to the comparatively lighter skin around them.  You pull up your sleeves a little next, just high enough to expose a few small spots on your forearms.  There are many that have already begun to nearly fade, and more still that are in varying states of transition.  
  
Dr. McCoy stands up and closes the distance between you.  He reaches out, gently taking your wrists in hand, one at a time, pushing up your sleeves as far as they’ll go.  He frowns, examining your injuries, his touch warm, gentle, and competent.  Exploring every last inch of your exposed skin, he lets you go, glancing up to meet your eyes.  
  
“Any other symptoms?”  He asks.  
  
You shake your head, unable to think of anything else peculiar that you’ve been experiencing.  He nods and turns to step away for a moment, returning a second later with a small device in hand.  
  
“Will you let me draw some blood?”  He queries, brandishing the lancet.  
  
“Sure,” you reply, a little nervous but also curious as to what the tests might show.  
  
He nods and takes your arm, supinating it in your lap and gently pressing the lancet to your forearm.  You wince a little at the sting as the machine samples your blood and gasp at a droplet that wells in its wake as the doctor pulls it away.  Before you can alert him to the minor complication, he’s already pressing a piece of gauze to the puncture mark and applying steady pressure.  A few moments pass and he removes the gauze, leaving a clean, closed wound in its place.  
  
“Why don’t you head out for the day,” he suggests, discarding the gauze.  “I’ll send this sample off and get back to you if there’s anything amiss.”  
  
You nod, glancing at the chron on the wall, realizing your shift is over anyway and feeling thankful for his concern.  
  
“Thanks,” you say gratefully.  “Really.  Thank you.”  
  
He smiles and holds out his hand, helping you down off of the bio bed.  
  
“Any time,” he says warmly.  “After all, that’s what friends are for.  We look out for each other.”  
  
You nod again, returning his grin, and make your way for the door.  
  
Hours later, you’re lying in bed, watching your favorite classic movie when your comm buzzes.  Turning down the volume, you glance at the screen and realize it’s Dr. McCoy.  Your heart skips somewhat nervously, hoping that his call at this hour doesn’t mean he’s found anything serious in your blood work, and you pick up the call.  
  
“ _Hey, Y/N, I’ve got your test results back_ ,” he says by way of greeting.  
  
“And?”  You ask.  
  
“ _Your vitamin K levels are low, and your catecholamine metabolites are elevated_ ,” the doctor conveys.  “ _Everything else checks out just fine._ ”  
  
You breathe a sigh of relief.  
  
“ _I’d like you to take a few days off_ ,” the doctor continues.  “ _De-stress a bit.  You deserve it.  Consider it an order; I’ve cleared you from duty for four days._ ”  
  
You’re somewhat disappointed – you absolutely  _love_  your job – but you’re also glad.  You’ve admittedly been feeling stressed lately and apparently it’s taken a physical toll on you.   
  
“Thanks, doc,” you say warmly.  “Consider it done.”  
  
You can hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“ _Any time, darlin’_ ,” he says softly. “ _Have a good night.  Rest up._ ”  
  
You’re nodding as he clicks off and the transmission ends.  With a relieved exhale, you lie back in your bed, turning the volume up on the movie once more.  You’re not really watching anymore, though, as you think back on your day.  You’d seen Dr. McCoy care for hundreds of people before, but today, for the first time, you just saw him  _care_ , and you feel your heart swell with love for him and pride in being able to call him a friend.


	3. C is for Cold

You’ve been absolutely run off of your feet for  _days_.  At the Enterprise’s last stop, someone on board had picked up a horrible rhinovirus and it had traveled through the air ducts, circulated throughout the ship, and gotten damn near everyone on board sick.  Med bay was full of patients coughing, sniffling, and sneezing, and you were doing everything in your power not to get caught in the virus’ crosshairs.  
  
It’s your seventh straight day on shift as you’d been called to fill in for a half dozen nurses who were also suffering from the cold and you’re wondering to yourself how medical science has been around for centuries and yet it still has no answer to the common cold.  

Stepping into the staff lounge, getting out of the fray for just a few moments, you pull your surgical mask off of your face and take your first breath of cool, fresh air in several hours.  Moving toward the kitchenette, you open the fridge and pull out an ice cold bottle of water.  Uncapping it, you tip it back and chug, draining it in a single breath.  
  
You’re startled a second later as you hear the door to the lounge open and someone burst inside, coughing violently. Spinning around on your heel, eyes wide, your gaze lands on your boyfriend and the ship’s CMO, Dr. Leonard McCoy.  He hasn’t noticed you yet and you take the opportunity to creep closer to him, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
You startle him in return and he clears his throat as he looks at you as though there’s any chance in hell you didn’t just hear him hacking.  You smile wryly at him and gesture to one of the chairs around the table in the center of the room.    
  
“And here I thought the germs wouldn’t dare touch you,” you say playfully, coming to stand beside him as he drops into a chair.  
  
“I’m fine,” he wheezes.  
  
“And I’m half Vulcan,” you retort, rolling your eyes.  “Give me that.”  
  
You take the tricorder he’s holding out of his hands, making a mental note to wash them before you touch anyone or anything else.  Turning the unit on, you wave it around the man in front of you, glancing at the readout on the screen.  
  
“Leonard, you’re burning up,” you say with concern, reaching out to touch a hand to his forehead.  “And your heart rate’s too fast for my liking.  We need to get you resting.”  
  
“Geoff’s the only other doctor we’ve got who isn’t sick,” Leonard mutters.  “I can’t leave him alone to deal with this.”  
  
You narrow your eyes at his stubbornness as you put the tricorder down.  
  
“He won’t be alone,” you reassure your boyfriend.  “I’m still here, and I’m sure a number of the crew who are either getting over this or otherwise immune would be happy to help.  It’s not hard to train someone to use a tricorder, even just to help us triage patients.  Don’t worry – we’ll handle it.”  
  
Leonard gives you a reproachful look as you reach out and squeeze his shoulder but he eventually relents with a sigh and a nod.  He moves to stand up from his chair and you hold out a hand, helping him up.  
  
“Let Geoff give you something for that fever before you go,” you urge him.  “And I’ll come up and check on you in a little bit.”  
  
He grumbles at you and you’re assuming he’s being agreeable.  Leading him back out into the med bay, you flag the other doctor down and leave Leonard in his capable hands as you rush off to check on a number of patients, including poor Keenser who appears to be sneezing acidic goo once again.  
  
The rest of your shift goes by quickly, even having gone into overtime, and you hand your station off to Mr. Spock, of all people, at the end of it all.  He’s no nurse, but he’s the smartest man on board and you know that he’ll be able to handle things under Dr. M’Benga’s supervision.  Still, you don’t envy whoever winds up under his scrutiny.  
  
On your way out of med bay, you grab Leonard’s med kit and make sure it’s fully stocked before you leave.  You bring it with you just in case he needs a top up on his medication and you make your way to his quarters.  You’ve walked the path between there and the med bay so many times that your feet carry you without your mind’s input and before long, you’re slipping in through the door and heading for his bed.  
  
You find him asleep under a pile of blankets and you chuckle softly, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed.  You reach out and touch his forehead, relieved not to feel any signs that his fever has returned, and you tuck him in properly. His face is slack with slumber and his features are softer, more youthful in their suspended animation. You only wish he could unwind enough consciously once in a while to be able to experience that kind of relaxation wide awake.  
  
Leaving him to sleep, you make your way over to the couch, stripping off your boots and curling yourself up for the night. Normally you would be sleeping next to the doctor, but you want to stay as far away from the contagion as possible, and so you relegate yourself to the sofa instead.   
  
As you tuck in for the night, you can’t help but smile.  Dr. Leonard McCoy is tough as nails and borderline unreasonable when he’s got work to do, but you’ve managed to tame the savage beast.  Getting him to submit and take it easy is the biggest challenge you’ve overcome in your career thus far and you’re damn proud of yourself as you doze off, leaving the day’s stresses far behind.


	4. D is for Dehydration

You swear as your sustained combat tactics instructor calls your name sharply, signaling you with a wave of your hand.  You glance at the monitoring band around your wrist, fuming at the red color it’s lit up in, betraying you.  Jogging off of the field, feeling suddenly dizzy, you join your instructor, coming to stand at attention before them.  
  
“Cadet Y/N, report to medical,” your instructor says firmly.  “You’re out for this round.”  
  
You protest, gesturing to the battlefield behind you, strewn with the slumped forms of training cyborgs and fellow cadets alike in various states of functioning.  You’ve outlasted 90% of your class, and you’re not ready to call it quits until you’re the last one standing.  
  
“With all due respect, sir, I’m fine,” you pant, bending forward to plant your palms on your thighs as you catch your breath.

You’re feeling unseasonably warm in your combat gear and even though you’re unweighted, specializing in hand to hand combat rather than weapons, your muscles feel heavy.  You know the monitor on your wrist is sounding a warning because some physical parameter or other of yours is unhealthily out of whack, but you’re so close to coming out on top that you don’t even care.  
  
“Stand down, Cadet,” your commanding officer asserts.  “You did well today.  You’re still in the top 5 – consider this a success.  Now go get yourself taken care of before you become a casualty.”  
  
You close your eyes for a second, sucking in a deep, cleansing breath and you spin on your heel, having been dismissed.  You take the requisite three marching steps away from your instructor and then shuffle off at ease, heading for the doors to the warehouse where the last few cadets are still battling it out.  
  
You’re trembling as you walk and you realize that you feel both overheated and chilled.  Picking up your duffel by the door, you dig through it and throw on an academy issue windbreaker, stepping out into the warm spring air outside. The walk from the warehouse, through the quad, and to the medical building isn’t a very long one, but your muscles are screaming at you more and more with every passing second.  
  
When you finally reach the reception desk, you flash your ID card at the girl behind the counter and she scans it quickly, pulling up your file.    
  
“War games, hey?”  She says with a wry smile.  “You’ll find your classmates in pod 2.  You can have a seat on any empty bed you’d like and a doctor will be over to see you shortly.”  
  
You nod and pass through the doors she had just indicated, glancing at the signs overhead.  It’s not long before you’re in the right place and you glance around, spotting an open curtain and an empty bed off to your right.  Making your way over to it, you set your bag down out of the way underfoot and sit on the bio bed, which immediately begins reading your vital signs.  You have no doubt it has synched itself to your wristband and all of the information that’s been gathered since the start of the exercise, nearly 18 hours ago now, is being uploaded to the medical center’s patient file.  
  
As soon as you’re settled, the curtain around your bed goes sliding shut.  You turn your head to follow it and watch a man stride into the cubicle just as it comes to a stop at the end of its track.  Your eyes sweep up his body, from his polished boots to his white hospital garb to his wary albeit gentle hazel eyes.  
  
“You’re the fifth person from your class to wind up here,” he says gruffly.  “And that’s just with dehydration.  I’ve got two dozen more waiting on sutures and casts.  I can’t believe they still run these simulations, it’s inhumane.”  
  
You shrug as the doctor approaches you, his tricorder running over you the second he’s at your bedside.  
  
“Only way to learn close-quarters combat is to use it,” you say simply.  “Sparring is great if your opponent is guaranteed to move the way that you do. It’s like choreography.  Combat, now, combat’s like freestyle, and the only way to get good at it is to learn how people move on their own.  So, simulations.”  
  
The doctor pauses, thoughtful, and shakes his head as he slips his tricorder into a pocket in his uniform before reaching for the band around your arm.  
  
“I’ll never understand your type,” the doctor mutters as he unlocks and removes your monitor.  
  
“And what, exactly, is my type, doctor…?”  
  
“McCoy,” he fills in.  “Leonard McCoy.”  
  
He doesn’t answer you right away, and you’re not sure he’s planning on it at all as he gestures for you to lie down. As he pulls out a holoscanner and begins to wave it over your body, cataloguing injuries, he makes a noncommittal noise and glances up at you.  
  
“You remind me a lot of my best friend,” he finally answers.  “James T. Kirk.”  
  
You gasp at hearing the man’s name.  He’s an absolute  _legend_  on campus for his prowess not only in the classroom, but in the bedroom as well.  He isn’t your type, but you’re willing to admit you can see why other girls practically fall over one another for him.  
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say with a smile.  
  
The doctor rolls his eyes as he completes the scan, moving to a set of cabinets beside the bed.  He returns a moment later with some supplies, setting them down on the bed beside you as he prepares to treat you.  
  
“If reckless, hot-headed, and arrogant sound like compliments, then by all means,” the doctor says dryly.  
  
You grit your teeth and barely notice the sting in your arm as the doctor starts an IV, hooking you up to a saline drip. Of all the presumptuous, forward, rude, uncalled for…  
  
“You don’t know a thing about me, doctor,” you say smoothly, your irritation scarcely an undercurrent.  
  
“You’re right,” he replies, taping the IV in place and moving on to clean and bandage the few cuts and scrapes that you have. “But at the risk of having to attend your funeral within a week of getting to know you, I think we’ll leave it at that.”  
  
You let out a groan of frustration.  
  
“Us combat girls aren’t all the same, you know,” you say dryly.  “Outside the arena, I happen to enjoy reading by candlelight, long walks on the beach, and a glass of bourbon on the rocks to help me wind down at night.”  
  
Dr. McCoy glances up at you from where he’s working, and you have to ask yourself twice whether you really see a spark of interest in his eye or whether it’s your imagination.  You turn the thought over in your mind for a moment and you smile at him, turning up the charm and playing the damsel in distress.  
  
“Besides, without girls like me to put back together, what would a skilled and masterful physician such as yourself do to pass the time?” You ask innocently, biting your lip for effect.  
  
“Darlin’, I’d much rather be seeing you for something a lot less unpleasant,” the doctor counters.  “A sprained ankle, a sore throat, an annual physical – nothing quite so damaging.”  
  
You let his words hang in the air between the two of you as he straightens up, having put the finishing touches on your last wound dressing.  As he strips off his gloves and checks on your IV, you reach out, gently touching his hand to get his attention.  
  
“How about something even less unpleasant than any of that?”  You quip. “Maybe coffee?”  
  
He barks out a laugh, setting his hands on his hips and shaking his head.  
  
“I’ll be damned if you aren’t honestly a carbon copy of James Kirk,” he says, clearly amused.   
  
“Is that a no, then?”  You ask, your heart skipping a little at the potential of rejection; you were so sure he was flirting with you.  
  
“It’s a no to the coffee,” the doctor amends. “I’d much rather take you out for lunch. The last thing you need is caffeine to drive that masochistic streak.”  
  
You laugh and shake your head, groaning as a headache blossoms in your temples.  Blinking the discomfort away, you meet the doctor’s concerned gaze as he leans a little closer, gently brushing away a stray strand of air that has liberated itself from your pony tail.  
  
“Why don’t we start small today,” he suggests softly.  “I’ll give you something for the headache.  You’ll sleep it off here for a few hours so I can keep an eye on your vitals while the saline does its thing, and then once you’re all better, you can let me walk you back to your quarters.”  
  
You smile slyly up at him.  
  
“But doctor, you know the kinds of cadets I hang around with,” you say, feigning seriousness.  “We might get ambushed on the way back.”  
  
“Well, darlin’, there’s no one I’d rather be ambushed with than a woman who knows her way around a close-combat situation,” he replies with a wink.  
  
You’re laughing as he leaves the room to retrieve the medication he offered you.  You can’t help but be amused by the doctor’s quick change of heart, and at the same time, you feel a little giddy at the thought of the walk home in a few hours. You’re hoping against hope that, in true gentlemanly fashion, the doctor will kiss you goodnight as he drops you off and you suddenly can’t wait for the evening to come.  
  
He returns a moment later with a loaded hypo in hand and you turn your head readily, barely even wrinkling your nose at the bite of the injection.  The medication it delivers is flooding your system seconds later and you can feel the vague ache in your whole body ebb away gently, leaving a heat and lightness in its wake.  The doctor is leaning over you as your eyelids flutter closed, and the last thing you remember is his touch on your cheek as he wishes you a good sleep, and the feeling of excitement at what’s to come when you wake up again.


	5. E is for Envenomation

After close to six months straight in space, you’re finally on shore leave at home on Earth, and while you couldn’t be happier, your boyfriend is even more so.  You can’t help but laugh as he soaks up the sun on the beach, breathing honest-to-goodness Terran air and listening to the waves crashing on the beach.  You’ve rarely seen him in a better mood, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite so relaxed.  
  
As the heat gets to be a little much for you, you reach over, splaying your hand on his chest and rolling off of your towel, into the sand to be closer to him.  He turns his head, opening his eyes to meet your gaze.  
  
“Let’s go for a swim,” you urge, the tang of the salt in the air beckoning you.

Leonard McCoy smiles at you and nods, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows.  
  
“Anything for you, darlin’,” he says with a wink.  
  
You squeal happily and sit up, brushing the sand off of your skin and getting to your feet.  The doctor stands as well, putting a hand on your lower back and gesturing to the shoreline.  
  
“Ladies first,” he offers.  
  
With a chuckle you break into a run, kicking off your flip-flops as you go and rushing full-tilt into the water, throwing yourself into a breaking wave and feeling the coolness surround you as you sink beneath it.  You come up for air seconds later, just in time for Leonard to wrap his arms around your waist as you break the surface.  
  
“I’ll race you to the buoy,” you say excitedly, pointing to one about fifty feet away.  
  
You feel his hesitation as you move to pull out of his hold.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s safe, darlin’,” he says reluctantly.  
  
You roll your eyes.  
  
“Trust me,” you say softly, reassuringly. “The topography of this area doesn’t lend itself to rip currents and the buoy is well within the safety cordon. It’ll be fine!”  
  
It’s Leonard’s turn to roll his eyes as your specialization in marine ecosystems comes to light and he nods.  
  
“Fine, but I get a three second head start,” he grumps.  “You’re a better swimmer.”  
  
You shrug, smiling innocently and give him the right of way.  He takes off in a breast stroke and you let him get fifteen feet off before you throw yourself into the next wave and chase off after him.  It feels so good to be able to stretch your muscles again in some way other than by using the workout equipment on board the Enterprise and within moments you’ve caught up to the doctor.  
  
You playfully grab his ankle as you get within range and you see him get flustered.  With a breathless laugh, you push past him and make your way toward the buoy, knowing you’ll trounce him easily in the race.    
  
You’re just about there a minute later when you hear him yelling.  It’s not a yell of frustration or excitement – it’s a shout of pain.    
  
Stopping dead in your tracks, you turn yourself around and paddle back to him, being aided in this direction by the waves. It takes you only moments to reach him and when you do, you see he’s treading water, holding onto his arm where there are angry, lacy, red welts rising around his grip.  
  
Glancing around, you see the culprit floating lazily a few feet away.  It’s a jellyfish – a small but not entirely harmless one - and you take note of it as you turn your attention back to Leonard.  
  
“Let’s get back to shore,” you say calmly. “I’ll take care of this.”  
  
He’s hissing breaths in through his teeth, seething with pain and anger, but you finally manage to encourage him to swim. You stay close by in case the muscles in his arm seize up but the two of you reach the shore without further incident. Once you’re on dry land, you take his hand and lead him back to your towels, gesturing for him to sit.  
  
“What the hell was that?”  He asks angrily.  “What’s happening?”  
  
You meet his gaze from where you’ve dropped to your knees and are rifling through your backpack.  Pulling out a water bottle and a dry towel, you hold out your hand, beckoning him wordlessly to give you his arm.  As he does so, you smile softly.  
  
“Take a deep breath,” you instruct him.  “It’s okay.  It’s just a jellyfish sting.”  
  
“Just a jellyfish sting?!”  He barks.  “Those things can kill you!”  
  
“Well, this one isn’t going to,” you assure him, opening the water bottle and emptying it over his arm, washing away any remnants of the animal’s tentacles and cnidocytes.  “It’s just a sea nettle, most likely a  _Chrysaora fuscescens_  by the looks of it.”  
  
He’s muttering under his breath as you work, picking up the towel and drying the area, hearing him hiss as you do so. He lean closer, inspecting the wounds, and are relieved that they’re rather superficial – the contact must have been brief.  Setting the towel aside, you gently fan the wound, hoping the coolness of the breeze you’re creating will help soothe the tenderness.  
  
“What are we going to do?”  Leonard asks.  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“There’s nothing much  _to_  do,” you explain.  “The pain should fade within a couple of hours and when we get back to the ship, if it’s still irritated, Dr. M’Benga can give you a shot of prednisone.”  
  
He stares at you across the space between the two of you and finally gives you the smallest smile.  
  
“When did you get to be such a brilliant doctor?”  He asks.  
  
You laugh, rolling your eyes.  
  
“A PhD in marine biology comes with plenty of practical lessons alongside the academic ones,” you reply.  “You think I haven’t been stung a few dozen times?”  
  
You shift around and reach for the beach umbrella lying off to the side of your towels.  Opening it up, you drive it into the sand between the two of you and position it so that the two of you are mostly in shade to avoid irritating the sting with the heat of the sun.  You observe Leonard carefully for a few moments, debating on whether or not to ask him further questions, eventually deciding that due diligence is more important than sparing him a little bit more panic.  
  
“It rarely happens,” you preface your queries. “But you need to tell me if you start feeling dizzy or short of breath.”  
  
Leonard’s eyes widen and he looks down at the wound again for a moment before looking back up to meet your eyes.  You reach out, taking his hand in yours, gently stroking a thumb over the back of it.  You can tell he’s taking stock of himself and after an extended pause, he finally shakes his head.  
  
“I’m fine,” he says firmly, more to himself than anyone.  
  
You smile warmly.  
  
“Yes, you are,” you emphasize.  
  
His usual grumpiness is back in place a moment later.  
  
“I thought space was bad,” he mutters.  “Now I can’t even feel safe on my own damn planet.”  
  
You’re practically howling with laughter as he glances around like something is going to come barreling at the two of you any second and you can’t help but wonder just how long it’s going to take you to convince him to head out for another swim.


	6. F is for Fracture

You’re in one piece as the soft yellow glow of the transporter surrounds you as you’re plummeting through thin air, having run off of a cliff in an attempt not to be eaten by a snarling wolf-like alien predator.  As you land on the transporter deck, however, after falling onto it at the terminal velocity you had gathered dropping off of the cliff, something in your arm gives and something in your chest follows.  
  
You’re too winded to do much more than weakly cry out and before you know what’s happening there are hands on you, helping you up, holding you up as you falter.  There are a number of voices echoing through the transporter room and you can’t make out any single one in the cacophony.  

“Man, that was a close one, hey Y/N?” The captain’s voice cuts through the noise.  
  
You glance over and realize he’s the one who’s steadying you and you weakly return his thousand-watt smile.  It doesn’t stay in place on his features for long, however, as he realizes that you’re not entirely alright.  His eyebrows knit together in concern as he escorts you off of the transporter pad, shouldering the rest of your party out of the way.  
  
“Alert medical,” he barks to an officer nearby. “Have Dr. McCoy on standby.”  
  
His orders are acknowledged and carried out as he leads you from the room.  He asks whether you’re okay to walk and once you assure him that you are, he continues to lead you down the hall and toward the turbo lift.  
  
The trip to medical isn’t a physically long one, but it seems to take forever as agony flares in your arm and your chest with every step you take.  Jim is right by your side, though, and supporting more of your weight than is probably necessary but you’re too sore to protest.  
  
The moment the two of you stumble over the threshold into med bay, Dr. McCoy is rushing up to you.  He looks at the tangle of your bodies and isn’t sure at first who of you is actually injured, but the urgency in the captain’s expression soon remedies that.  
  
“Bring her here,” he orders.  “What happened?”  
  
“Rough trip back,” Jim says, not mincing words out of want to have you feeling better sooner.  “We were thrown onto the transporter deck when they beamed us up, she landed wrong.”  
  
The doctor nods and moves around to the opposite side of the bio bed, allowing the captain to help you up onto it.  You whine softly at the searing pain in your chest as the motion of sitting down shifts your ribcage and tears sting at your eyes as you continue to support your wrist.  
  
“Lie back, Lieutenant,” the doctor instructs.  
  
You shake your head, afraid that if you do so, the pain will only get worse.  You can’t see his expression as he’s standing behind you, but it’s only a matter of moments before you hear his footsteps coming around and you glance up to meet his eyes.  
  
“Tell me where it hurts, Y/N,” he encourages you.  
  
You attempt to take a deep breath but you’re hindered by the pain and you gasp instead, curling in on yourself a little bit more.  
  
“My chest,” you reply weakly.  “And my arm.”  
  
He nods and produces a tricorder from his pocket, slowly waving it over the indicated areas and frowning at the readouts. Once he’s gleaned what information he can from the instrument, he puts it away in favor of a proper examination.  
  
“I’m going to touch your arm now,” he explains. “I won’t ever lie to you; it might hurt a bit, but I’ll be quick.”  
  
He instructs a passing nurse to bring him a hypo loaded with some pain medication for you and then does as he had said he would, grasping your arm at the wrist and elbow, doing his best to keep it stabilized as he pulls it ever so gently away from your chest.  You resist at first, but as pain flares at the site of the injury your muscles give out and you allow him to do as pleases, feeling relieved to find that it hurts less when you relax.  
  
You watch his fingers as he presses gently on your wrist, prodding here and there to evaluate the stability and alignment of the bones.  Once he’s done there, he sets your arm down gently in your lap, meeting your gaze once more.  
  
“Now your chest, darlin’,” he says softly.  
  
You’ve forgotten all about Jim standing no less than four feet away as the term of endearment makes your heart skip a little and you give consent with a nod.  Though the doctor’s touch is muted through the fabric of your uniform and eliciting tenderness where he’s palpating, you still feel a little giddy at his proximity, though there’s a part of your brain reminding you that some of the giddiness is likely endorphins in reaction to your injuries.  
  
All too soon, the doctor pulls away, turning his attention briefly to the nurse that has returned with the hypo he had asked for.  When he focuses back in on you, his expression is kind, sympathetic, and a little apologetic as he gestures to the hypo.  
  
“I’m going to make you more comfortable, and then I’m going to get to work on your injuries,” he explains.  “You’ve cracked the smaller of the two bones in your lower arm from the direct impact, and you’ve cracked two of your ribs.  I’m going to use low-frequency sound waves to stimulate ossification of all three fractures and you should be as good as new in a couple of days.”  
  
You nod numbly, eyeing the hypo in his hand. He smiles at you briefly as he slowly lifts it to your neck and you shut your eyes tightly as he injects the medication. You feel a quick pinch and then there’s the bliss of the drugs as the pains in your arm and your chest begin to disappear.  
  
“Okay, now let’s try getting you lying down again,” the doctor suggests.  
  
This time you’re confident that nothing is going to be agonizing as you shift and you take the first deep breath you’ve been able to since your injury as you lie back, earning yourself another smile from the doctor.  
  
“You’re doing great,” he reassures you, reaching for a small, hand-held osteoregeneration unit.  “Just stay relaxed and keep taking nice, deep breaths for me.”  
  
His hand is on your wrist again, turning it over so that he can pass the osteoregenerator directly over the fracture there and you close your eyes, soon slipping into a light sleep, unaware of just how much of an effect the drug he’s given you is having on you.  
  
Half an hour later (though it feels like only moments to you) there’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re opening your eyes. Jim is shaking you awake and you frown, confused, glancing around blearily.  
  
“Hey, Y/N, welcome back,” he says warmly. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Your brain hasn’t quite come through the haze of the medication and you lick your lips, ignoring his question.  
  
“Where’s the doctor?”  You ask.  
  
Jim frowns in concern.  
  
“He’s just gone to check on another patient, he’ll be right back,” he relays.  “Are you alright?  Are you in pain?”  
  
You shake your head, the room spinning a little.  
  
“Nah, he’s just nice to look at,” you mumble, slurring your words a little.  “And his hands are so soft…”  
  
Your eyes flutter closed again and you fail to notice the wry smile on Jim’s face.  You also fail to notice the doctor’s timely return.  He’s heard every word, and while you’re blind to it, his expression is thoughtful and it’s obvious that your comment isn’t unwelcome.  
  
“Hey there, sugar,” he says softly, putting a hand on your shoulder.  “Open your eyes and look at me.  Talk to me – tell me how you’re feeling.”  
  
You obey with a groan of protest and clear your throat a bit.  
  
“Better now tha’ you’re here,” you murmur. “I’m a-okay.  You did a good job patchin’ me up doctor…”  
  
He chuckles softly as you drop off again, snoring quietly, sleeping easily and without pain under the influence of the morphine.  Leonard, meanwhile, looks up at Jim.  
  
“It’s the medication,” he says with a shrug. “She doesn’t have a good drug tolerance.”  
  
Jim smiles brightly, shaking his head.  
  
“I’m just going to put this out there, but I don’t think it’s just the medication,” Jim says with sidelong glance at your dozing form.  “Take care of her, Bones; she’s the best geologist we have, and she’s a lot of fun.”  
  
The doctor watches the captain step away from the bed and make a hasty exit, shaking his head at Jim and looking back down at you.  He smiles fondly at you as your mouth falls open a little in your deep sleep. Reaching out, he strokes your cheek gently with a finger, wordlessly acknowledging that he’ll take care of you, alright.


	7. G is for Growing Pains

You are startled out of a deep sleep as you hear a shrill scream from down the hallway. Shaking off the waking warmth of your quickly fading dreams, you swing your legs over the side of your bed and rush out of you and Leonard’s shared bedroom, making your way hurriedly down the hall and to your daughter’s bedroom.

As you move over to her bed, you find her crying, holding onto her leg.  Sitting down beside her, you reach out to gently stroke her curls, shushing her softly, murmuring reassurance.  
  
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”  You ask softly.  
  
She sniffs, hiccupping from how hard she’s been crying and shifts so that she’s in your lap, still pawing at one of her legs.  
  
“H-hurts,” she sobs.  
  
At three years old, she’s bright for her age but still unable to express her concerns fully, and you know that asking her much more about whatever is hurting her is futile.  Instead, you simply kiss her forehead, reaching out to touch her leg, rubbing over her tiny calf soothingly in an attempt to calm her.  
  
Her crying hasn’t stopped or eased up much fifteen minutes later and you’re growing increasingly concerned.  You try to shift her off of you so that you can go and fetch your comm but she isn’t having any of it.  Putting a gentle hand on her chest, you call her attention, getting her to calm briefly and look at you.  
  
“I’m going to go call daddy,” you murmur gently.  “I’ll be right back, baby.  Okay?”  
  
She sniffs hard and seems to relax a little at the mention of her father.  She nods, still crying softly as you deposit her back on the bed.  On your way out, you flip on her night light so she isn’t afraid alone in the darkness and you race down the hall to grab your comm. You unlock it and quickly send a message to your husband, tossing the comm back on the bed before making your way to your daughter’s bedroom.  
  
As soon as you sit down, she’s back in your lap and clinging to you, beginning to fuss from exhaustion as she continues to sob softly.  In the dim glow of the night light, you push her nightgown up and out of the way to take a closer look at her leg but you see nothing there.  You’re both relieved and puzzled and all you can do is continue to try to calm her, singing softly to her as you wait for Leonard.  
  
He arrives no more than ten minutes later, clad in his hospital garb and looking somewhat harassed.  He strides over to you, closing the distance between the bed and the door in half the number of steps it takes you and kneeling at your daughter’s bedside.    
  
“Hey, what’s going on?”  He asks.  
  
The sound of his voice gets your daughter’s attention and she immediately lets go of you, spinning around to throw her little arms around Leonard’s neck.  He embraces her gently, holding her close and rubbing her back lightly.  At his touch, she begins to calm almost immediately and you chuckle softly; she’s definitely daddy’s girl.  
  
“Hey, angel,” Leonard murmurs softly into her hair.  “What’s wrong?”  
  
She sniffs, leaning back and wiping a hand across her eyes to brush her tears away and she points to her right leg. Your husband smiles softly at the girl and you’re both relieved that the tears seem to have stopped for now.    
  
“Is your leg hurting?”  He asks.  
  
She nods and he shifts her off of his lap to sit on the edge of her bed.  You put an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer and watch the two of them interact as he gently takes her sore leg in hand, smoothing his palm over her shin and then around to her calf.  As he applies the slightest bit of pressure to her calf she whines softly and clings more tightly to your side, reaching out a hand to push him away.  
  
“Daddy no,” she whimpers.  
  
“It’s okay, darlin’,” he reassures her.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
She’s wary but she nods, pressing herself into you.  As Leonard pulls out his tricorder, you gently run your fingertips over her arm to soothe her, but you needn’t worry – she  _loves_  the peculiar whirring noise the instrument makes and she’s giggling as the doctor waves it over her leg. You watch him as he conducts his very brief exam, looking for any sort of a change in his expression that might signal trouble, and you’re happy to find none as he glances up.  
  
“She’s going to be just fine, Y/N,” he tells you softly.  “I’m no pediatrician, but I’m reasonably sure she’s just going through some growing pains.”  
  
You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding and you nod.  Looking down at your daughter, you ruffle her hair and pat the bed behind you, right where she’d been lying asleep not a half hour earlier.  
  
“Why don’t you get back under the covers, sweetheart,” you say quietly.  
  
Your daughter nods and crawls around, lying back against her pillows, waiting to be tucked back in.  She seems to be out of pain for the most part and you’re glad, remembering your own growing pains and how awful they were.  While you’re no doctor, growing pains are something you know how to deal with.  The next time she acts up, you’re going to do exactly what your own mother had done when you were growing up – gently rub her calves until the pain calms down and put her in a warm bath to keep her comfortable.  Lots of love and a little bit of ice cream go a long way.  
  
Shifting off of the bed, you stand and lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then stepping aside for dad.  Her face lights up as he takes your spot and she reaches up for a hug.  As you watch the two of them interact in the same way they have at bedtime for as far back as you can remember, you feel your heart fill with love for the two of them even more than ever.  
  
It doesn’t take long for Leonard to get your daughter back to sleep and once he has, the two of you step out of her bedroom. You turn to face him in the hall and reach up to put your own arms around his neck.  You sigh contentedly as he pulls you into a tight embrace and you realize you’re trembling just a little bit.  
  
“Thank you,” you murmur into his ear.  
  
“There’s nothing to thank me for, darlin’,” he says gently, pulling away and holding you at arm’s length so he can get a better look at you.  “Things are quiet at work tonight and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see my two favorite girls.”  
  
You laugh softly, shakily, and nod. Leonard’s hands are at your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that had been threatening to fall since you’d first awakened to your daughter screaming.  
  
“You’re alright,” Leonard whispers, holding your gaze.  “You did great.”  
  
You smile weakly and nod, not willing to admit that your heart’s still racing.  Before you’d had your daughter, you had never once thought about kids. You’d been certain that you completely lacked any sort of maternal instinct.  The second you’d first laid eyes on her, though, as Leonard had held your hand in the delivery room, you’d fallen in love and your world had turned upside down.  You’d navigated early motherhood by way of frantic phone calls to your own mom and reassurance from Leonard that you were doing a great job.  Now you just figure things out as you go, day by day, and hope for the best.  Thankfully your daughter appears to be growing up happy and healthy, and for that you’re beyond grateful.  
  
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess sometimes,” you blurt before you can check yourself.  
  
Leonard frowns, stepping closer to you once more and leaning in to press his lips to your forehead.  As he makes contact, you realize just how therapeutic this kind of love and affection is and you sigh, putting your hands on his chest.  
  
“Don’t talk about my wife like that,” Leonard grumps at you.  
  
A laugh bubbles up out of your chest and you shake your head, pulling away just in time to stifle a huge yawn.  Your display of tiredness isn’t lost on Leonard and he gently pushes at your shoulders, steering you towards your shared bedroom.  You allow yourself to be led to bed and guided onto it.  You lie down as Leonard stands over you and relax immediately as he pulls the covers up to your chin, tucking them firmly in around you and leaning down to kiss your forehead again.  
  
“I’ve got to go back to work,” he says apologetically.  “But I want you to get a good night’s sleep.  Do you want me to give you a little something to help you relax?”  
  
You shake your head, simply shifting around until you’re comfortable and closing your eyes.  
  
“No, I’ll be okay,” you murmur, your voice already thicker with sleep.  
  
You yawn again and sigh, feeling Leonard’s hand land on your hair and stroke it gently.  Within moments sleep claims you, and despite the anxiety you’d been feeling just minutes before, you have nothing but wonderful dreams about the two most incredible people in your life.


	8. H is for Hypothermia

You’ve gone completely numb to everything around you but the body beneath your touch.    
  
Your team had been scouting a previously uncontacted planet when one of your teammates was hit with some sort of a poison dart.  He’d immediately gone into convulsions and had rapidly decompensated into respiratory arrest.  The rest of your crew had formed a perimeter around you, giving you some space in which to try to help the man as you waited for transport.  That had been over twenty minutes before.  
  
You’re now kneeling next to the downed man, attending to the respirator unit you’ve strapped on him and attempting to start an IV so you can give some drugs to break his seizures the old-fashioned way as the rain pouring down around you has long since drowned your hypo and your tricorder.

It’s raining torrentially and you can see your breath fogging the air as you pant, attempting to stay warm and ordering your frozen fingers to work.  You’ve finally gotten a line in and you’re working furiously to draw up some diazepam, holding the syringe close to your face so you can read the units on it in the near-complete darkness that surrounds you.  
  
Swearing under your breath as you fumble the syringe, you finally manage to twist it into the med port on the IV and you push the drug, exhaling in relief as the patient’s seizure activity diminishes and stops within moments.  Reaching out, your press your fingertips to his pulse point but your hands are so cold and stiff that you can barely feel anything and you can’t be entirely certain whether he’s in cardiac arrest or not.  
  
You’re just about to look up at your communications officer and ask what the hell is taking so long when you feel the all-too-familiar sensation of being grabbed by the transporter.  Everything around you goes blank for a moment and when you come back to your senses, you’re standing on the Enterprise’s transporter deck, muddied up from head to toe, dripping wet, and so cold that the room air in the compartment feels like it’s burning your skin.  
  
“Get him to medical,” you bark, gesturing to the crewman at your feet.  “Tell M’Benga he was in status for 20 minutes after being hit with an unidentified poison. I pushed five milligrams of diazepam IV a few minutes ago, but he’s going to need more unless we figure out what hit him.”  
  
The transport team nods as they transfer the patient to a stretcher and rush him off toward medical.  You sigh and run a hand over your face, stepping forward and off of the transporter pad yourself.  Waving off a few concerned crew members, you order the rest of the team over to medical as well, just as a precaution, and bring up the rear.    
  
You arrive in med bay a minute later and it’s only then that you start really feeling the cold again.  The shivering starts out in little bits at first, occasional single tremors wracking your body, but within minutes it becomes constant, persistent, and debilitating.  You can barely walk anymore and you glance around, glad that most of the other staff in med bay are preoccupied with patients as you beat a hasty retreat to your office.  
  
Closing the door behind yourself, you barely make it forward a few steps before your legs give out and you hit the floor. Whining silently from the fresh pain in your knees, you crawl towards a nearby chair, propping yourself up with your back against it as you shiver.  
  
“Computer, temperature twenty-five degrees,” you say aloud, your voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Thankfully, the life support system registers your instructions and within a moment you can feel warm air blowing in through the air ducts.  As you sit on the floor, praying that you warm up quickly, you hear a familiar voice outside of your office and its owner seems to be looking for you.  Cursing inwardly, you glance up at him as he enters your office and looks down at you with a shocked and concerned expression on his face.  
  
“My God, Y/N,” he says seriously.  “You look like hell.”  
  
He’s kneeling beside you in an instant, his trained eye taking in your pallor, your shivering, and your disheveled state. You grit your teeth in an attempt to stop the violent trembling but to no avail.  As Dr. McCoy reaches out to touch a hand to your arm, you wince at the sensation of pins and needles the pressure causes in your hypothermic tissues.  
  
“Jesus,” he mutters.  “We need to get you out of these clothes.”  
  
You nod mutely, allowing Leonard to gently gather you up and help you to your feet.  Your legs don’t want to hold you but it doesn’t matter much as he simply sits you in the chair you’d been propped up against, glancing around your office.  
  
“Do you have a spare uniform in here?” He asks.  
  
You nod, gesturing vaguely to the closet at the other end of the room.  He strides over to it and returns moments later with your dry clothes, setting them on your desk as he kneels in front of you.  
  
“No time for modesty,” he says lightly. “We need to get you changed.  I’m going to give you a hand, and then we’re going to get you into a bed.  What were you thinking, coming in here, darlin’?  You know that you need to be monitored.  If you’re not warmed up slowly and carefully you can damage your heart.”  
  
You don’t bother to respond as your teeth are chattering too badly for words, you simply allow him to help you out of the sopping wet and filthy garments you’re clad in and into the clean, dry ones. You feel better almost immediately, even though you’re now lacking undergarments, but the shivering isn’t even close to letting up.  
  
“Come on,” Leonard growls.  “I’ve got you.”  
  
You wonder what he means for a moment but you’re not left hanging for long as he scoops you up into his arms and swiftly carries you out of the room.  He takes you only a short way away and deposits you gently on a bio bed, doing his best not to jostle you too much.  
  
As you lie back, shivering with your wet hair plastered to your head he moves away, only to return moments later with blankets.  You’re grateful for them as he unfolds and shakes them out before draping them over your lower half.  He activates the bio bed with a free hand and glances up at the readout overhead, making a noncommittal noise as he reaches over for his tricorder.  
  
“Your core temperature is 34.1 degrees,” Leonard says pointedly.  “Your heart rate is through the roof, your blood pressure is elevated, and your insulin and glucagon levels are out of whack.  What the  _hell_  were you thinking?”  
  
“I was g-going to f-freeze either way,” you chatter, your teeth clacking together from the shivers running through you. “At l-least I was able to h-help L-lieutenant M-maxwell.  Tell me you w-wouldn’t h-have done the s-same.”  
  
A muscle in Leonard’s cheek twitches at your words, but he opts out of replying.  Instead, he steps away again, returning with a handful of wireless electrodes.  It takes him less than half a minute to slip his hand underneath your top, the heat of his fingers burning your chilled skin, and stick them all into place on your chest.  Once he has, he pulls up a tracing of your heart rhythm on the holoscreen, watching it carefully, his expression firmly set in worry.  
  
“Well, you’re not throwing Osborn waves, at least,” he murmurs.  “Looks like you’ve narrowly managed to escape heart damage.”  
  
You know, rationally, that anger is how the CMO shows that he cares, but in your less than content state, you find it irritating.  
  
“Hardly,” you quip hoarsely.  “I’m barely into m-mild hypothermia.  Y-you don’t need to w-worry about that for another three degrees or s-so.”  
  
Leonard grunts and uncrosses his arms from over his chest, pulling the blankets up to your shoulders.  Pulling a stool closer to your bed, he takes a seat and reaches out to rest a hand on your arm.  
  
“Even so, I want you to take it easy after I let you out of here tonight,” he says, more softly this time.  “And I want to see you before your shift tomorrow to do a repeat ECG.”  
  
You nod shakily and feel your shivering increase as the blankets remove you further from the ambient chill you had been exposed to planet-side.  You know it will stop as your temperature comes up but you feel like the reprieve can’t come soon enough as total exhaustion beckons you.  
  
“H-how’s the Lieutenant doing?”  You ask several minutes later, going between dozing and consciousness.  
  
“He’ll be just fine thanks to you,” Leonard replies, squeezing your arm gently.  
  
You smile and turn your head to look at him. He’s studying the monitors overhead and you have to shift your arm beneath his touch to get his attention. As his eyes connect with yours, you smile up at him, your shivers finally beginning to subside.  
  
“It’s my job, Lee,” you murmur.  “To help save lives, sometimes at the expense of my own safety.  It’s yours, too.”  
  
“Damn it, woman, you’re a doctor, not a superhero,” he says, his tone lacking it’s usual venom.   
  
“One and the same, Dr. McCoy,” you reply. “At least, you’re a doctor and  _my_ personal hero.”  
  
His laugh is warm and rich, like melted chocolate, and you let the sound soothe you.  Shifting so that you’re lying on your side, you slip one arm out from under the blankets, wrapping your hand around his and squeezing it now that you’re getting your dexterity back.  The difference in the temperatures of your skin is still startling but if he minds, he doesn’t show it.  Instead, he reaches up with his other hand, too, covering yours so you can’t catch even the smallest of chills.  
  
“You scared the hell out of me today, darlin’,” he admits softly.  
  
“I know,” you confess.  “And I’m sorry.  Thank you for taking care of me.”  
  
He smiles again and it warms you more than any amount of blankets ever could.  
  
“Always.”


	9. I is for Immunizations

_I can do this, I can do this, I can do this._  
  
“Who are you trying to convince, me or you?” Dr. McCoy’s voice breaks through your mental fog.  
  
You open your eyes and realize that you have just spoken aloud.  Cursing inwardly, you crack a wry smile, studiously avoiding looking at the hypo in his hand.  You’ve never been good with shots, and so updating your immunizations makes today’s short list of things you’d rather avoid.  Still, you know it’s a necessary evil and so you sit still on the bio bed beneath you, gritting your teeth and waiting for the sting.  
  
“Relax, darlin’,” Leonard says gently.  “It’ll be over in just a moment and then you’ve got nothing to worry about for a long time after.”

You nod and take a slow, deep breath.  As the two of you had agreed before, Leonard doesn’t warn you before pressing the hypo to your neck and injecting the toxoid. It’s better that way and within seconds it’s all over and his hand is at your neck, gently massaging the spot he’s just injected.  
  
“You’ve got your orders now,” he says in a mock whisper, though no one can hear him through the exam room door anyway.  “I’ll be waiting for you down in engineering.”  
  
You grin as you hop off of the table, standing up on your tiptoes and pulling Leonard’s face down close to yours for a kiss. He sets down the hypo he’s holding and puts his hands on your waist, pulling you in closer for a moment, deepening the kiss until you’re breathless and then breaking it to look down at you.  
  
“Focus on the mission at hand, Lieutenant Y/LN,” he says, feigning seriousness.  “We need to take care of our captain.”  
  
You nod and straighten your tunic, waving at the doctor over you shoulder and making your way out of the exam room.  You walk swiftly down the hallway and towards the bridge.  You open the doors and step over the threshold.  
  
“Permission to come on the bridge?”  You ask.  
  
“Granted, Lieutenant,” the captain says with a smile.  “What can we do for you?”  
  
“Captain, there’s a problem down in engineering,” you say seriously.  “Mr. Scott has asked me to fill you in on the way down.”  
  
His eyebrows furrow and he looks confused. You’re worried that your ruse is about to be unraveled, but thankfully the captain’s expression clears and he nods.  
  
“Mr. Sulu, you’ve got the helm,” he instructs. “I’ll be back shortly.”  
  
He gestures for you to go ahead and follows along close to you as you head for the turbo lift.    
  
“Is there a reason Mr. Scott didn’t just comm me?”  He asked. “I can find my way down to engineering just fine.”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“I didn’t see his comm nearby,” you reply, inventing wildly as you go.  “He needed to focus as he worked – it’s the life support system, sir.  The thermoregulation unit is pulling a disproportionate amount of power from the grid.  If we don’t get a handle on it, it could start diverting away from the air purifiers or the grav core.  When I left, Mr. Scott was trying to figure out where the leak in the circuitry is and he mentioned something about needing to change course to pick up a new part.”  
  
Jim’s expression is grave and you’re confident that he’s buying what you’re saying.  Moments later, you’re stepping off of the turbo lift in the Enterprise’s underbelly and leading the captain past closed doors, lit-up consoles, and various humming and whirring machines of all shapes and sizes.  
  
You pause outside of the door to the life support control room and quickly glance through the window inside.  It looks empty, but you know better.  As you open the door and step inside, you smoothly accept the hypo that’s thrust into your hand by the doctor crouching inside the door.    
  
As Jim follows you through the door, it slides shut behind him automatically and you spin around.  Acting quickly and in perfect choreography with Leonard, the two of you corner Jim from either side and, before he can protest, release hypos full of the requisite vaccines into either side of his neck.  Jim screeches indignantly and claps his hands to both injection sites, looking between you and Leonard with mingled anger and reproach in his eyes.  
  
“I expected this from you,” he grumps at the CMO, turning to you.  “But I trusted you.”  
  
You hang your head, hoping Leonard’s master status as the captain’s best friend would help lend you some immunity from punishment, as what you’ve done technically constitutes assault.    
  
“She was under orders from a senior officer, Jim,” the doctor says firmly, clapping the captain on the shoulder.  “And you had your chance.  You had a week’s worth of chances.”  
  
Jim shakes his head.  
  
“You’re a pain in my ass, Bones,” he says with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“I know,” the doctor replies with a shrug, taking the second hypo from you and putting them both into his kit before heading for the door.  
  
“Thanks, darlin’,” he says with a smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead.  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”  
  
Glancing at Jim as he hovers in the doorway, he inclines his head a little.  
  
“And I’ll see  _you_  for your physical later this week,” he states, leaving no room for argument as he strides off briskly.  
  
You’re left standing there somewhat awkwardly, avoiding the captain’s gaze as the man rubs the side of his neck that the doctor had injected.  
  
“Have you ever considered switching to medical?”  He asks. “Even with no experience you’re more gentle than he is, plus I wouldn’t mind having you give me my physicals…”  
  
You roll your eyes at how incorrigible your captain is, stepping around him and stalking off in the same direction the doctor had gone.  
  
“Just don’t let Leonard hear you say that,” you call at him as you board the turbo lift, a grin plastered to your face.


	10. J is for Jet Lag

You’ve been on the alpha shift for as long as you’ve been on the Enterprise, and so, when you get the message that staffing changes are coming in the wake of the Enterprise’s destruction and rebuilding after the whole situation with Krall, you’re a little bit nervous about the pending changes.  
  
Now, on the third beta shift of your rotation, the change is really catching up with you.  You haven’t quite managed to turn your sleep-wake cycle around yet, and the ship’s perpetually active bright, white lights are wreaking havoc on your body.  Your eyes are stinging from the illumination and a headache is pounding in your temples, but you push through the physical discomfort, bypassing it in favor of the emotional turmoil haunting your thoughts.  
  
You’ve never been good at being a civil person when you’re exhausted, and now is no exception.  You’ve sealed yourself off in your lab and you’re working on recrystallizing some newly discovered acids you had isolated from samples the crew of the last away mission had returned.  Thankfully it’s a lonely job and so you have plenty of time to lament your situation and doze off here and there.

You do just that a few minutes later and you wake with a start at the sound of clattering glass.  Glancing around frantically, you reach out without thinking, using your sleeve to stop the flow of the liquids you have just spilled as they race for the edge of the lab bench.  You put your arm down in what you belatedly realize is scalding benzoic acid in the midst of decarboxylation and you cry out as your skin starts to bubble and burn immediately.  
  
The accident forgotten, you rush away from your desk and to the nearest sink, turning the cold water on and sticking your arm under the flow.  You’re hissing in pain as even the contact of the water causes a searing agony to light the nerve endings in your injured arm on fire and you realize that this isn’t some small thing you can take care of on your own.  
  
Slipping your lab coat off of your uninjured side, you pause and pull your arm out from under the water.  The spray has washed and diluted the acid down enough that it’s safe to touch and you carefully peel the fabric away from your badly blistered limb.  Tears are running down your face as you finally drop the lab coat to the floor and you can’t even begin to think about pulling up the sleeve of your tunic.  
  
Taking a deep, shaky breath, you make your way out of the lab.  Thankfully the hallways are quiet on beta shift – most of the crew are asleep or otherwise engaged, so you don’t run into anyone along the way as you walk the distance to medical.  The walk isn’t a very long one, but with the wet fabric of your tunic clinging to your badly injured arm, each step sends knives of agony lancing through your skin and straight to the most primal part of your brain, kicking up your heart rate and breathing and making you want to scream.  
  
As you cross the threshold into medical, you find it emptier than you’ve ever seen it.  Then again, the only times you’ve ever been to medical in the past have been during the pseudo-daytime on the alpha shift, and when the masses are awake, so is the med bay.  Now, though, it’s quiet and almost eerie in its sterility.  
  
“What happened here?”  A concerned, deep voice with a lilting Southern drawl asks from behind you.  
  
Turning around, you find the ship’s chief medical officer standing opposite you, his eyes raking you from top to bottom, undoubtedly already skillfully gleaning all sorts of information about your condition just from what you look like standing there.  
  
“I’m Lieutenant Y/L/N from the organics lab,” you say, your voice strained with pain.  “I-I had a bit of an accident.”  
  
“I know who you are,” the doctor comments. “What kind of accident?”  
  
As he waits for your answer, he takes you by the uninjured arm and leads you to a bio bed, helping you up onto it.  As you wonder how he knows who you are, he quickly slips into a pair of gloves and reaches for a pair of scissors, readying himself to cut away the remnants of your sleeve.  You reach out to stop him with your good hand before he gets too close, though, shaking your head.  
  
“I burned myself with a hot acid,” you say quickly, your words punctuated by short, shallow breaths as you fight to control the pain.  “Take off your gloves.  It was a carboxylic acid, it’ll make a mess of the nitrile.  It’s diluted now, it’ll be safe enough on your hands.”  
  
The doctor looks like he wants to argue but he nods instead, trusting your much greater knowledge of your situation. Tossing the gloves aside, he steps toward you again, holding up a pair of laser shears and gesturing to your arm.  
  
“I’m going to cut your sleeve away so I can take a look at your wounds,” he explains.  
  
You nod and he moves forward to begin the process.  He glances up at you every once in a while as he cuts, his expression apologetic every time you wince or cry out in pain.  
  
“Tell me what I need to know about this stuff to treat you,” the doctor asks, giving you something besides the pain to focus on.  
  
“It behaves like any other carboxylic acid,” you respond.  “The burn will need to be washed with a non-polar detergent.”  
  
The doctor nods as he finishes cutting the last vestiges of your sleeve away, turning your hand over to survey the injury properly.  
  
“What about other systems?”  He asks.  “Respiratory, circulatory?”  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“I didn’t breathe much of it in,” you assure him.  “I was working with a relatively small sample.”  
  
He nods but, wanting to make sure for himself that you really are otherwise alright, grabs his tricorder and scans you briefly before moving off for a moment.  When he reappears, he’s carrying a spray bottle full of a vaguely blue-colored liquid and a few absorbent sheets.  He lays the sheets in your lap and aims the bottle at the burns.  
  
“This might hurt a bit,” he informs you, and you nod to give him consent.  
  
You whine softly as the spray comes into contact with your burns and you can feel that it’s something strangely slippery, almost greasy.  Once it’s been on for a moment, you breathe a sigh of relief; it’s having a cooling effect on the burns and cleaning away what remains of the acidic residue.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that,” the doctor murmurs softly. “This will take care of the acid, clean, and soothe the tissues.  It’ll help to encourage skin regeneration and shorten your healing time considerably.”  
  
You nod, watching as he gathers supplies with which to bandage what remains of your injury.  Your tired mind rewinds to earlier in the encounter, and the words come out of your mouth before you can stop them.  
  
“How do you know who I am?”  You ask.  “You said you knew who I was.  There are over a thousand people on this ship and I’ve never been a patient of yours. How can you know me?”  
  
The doctor stays quiet for a moment as he applies some sort of an ointment to your burns.  It hurts, but not nearly as badly as it did before thanks to the stuff he’d sprayed on your skin, and you find yourself feeling exhausted all over again in the wake of the agony.  
  
“The chemistry labs are on the way to my quarters,” he finally replies.  “You used to work alpha shift – I’d see you in the lab every day when I went by.”  
  
“That still doesn’t explain how you know who I am,” you reason.  
  
He shrugs.  
  
“You were always so engrossed in your work, anyone walking by could see your passion for what you do,” he continues.  “It’s rare to find that kind of dedication anymore, and I like a woman with a strong work ethic, so I asked around.”  
  
His words don’t sink in at first, but when they finally do, your cheeks flush and you hear the bio bed chime, indicating a jump in your heart rate.  The doctor glances up briefly from his work to the numbers on the holoscreen, then down to your face, before returning to the task at hand.  
  
“I, uh,” you stutter, unsure of what to say. “I… thanks, Dr. McCoy.”  
  
The doctor laughs, putting the finishing touches on your bandage before straightening up and meeting your gaze.  
  
“Leonard, please,” he says smoothly.  “Now that we’ve met, maybe we can get to know each other a little better.”  
  
The alarm on the bio bed is chirping incessantly now and you draw a deep, shaky breath, giving the handsome doctor a smile. You have spent so long buried in your work that you’ve never really noticed him before, but looking at him now you can’t imagine how.  You nod, laughing a little nervously, and glance down to inspect his handiwork.  
  
“That sounds wonderful,” you say softly, moving to get off of the bio bed.  “How about dinner one of these days?”  
  
A hand on your shoulder stops you and you’re forced to look up again.  
  
“Not so fast, darlin’,” he said gently.  “I’ve got no intention of letting you go just yet; it may have been diluted, but I remember enough from my organic chemistry days to know that benzoic acid is some nasty stuff, so I say we observe due diligence and keep you in here for a few hours so I can monitor you.  At least until your heart rate comes down.  Plus I’d like for you to try to get some rest.”  
  
You smile wryly.  
  
“Is it that obvious I’m not sleeping?” You ask.  
  
Leonard laughs.  
  
“Besides the fact that I know a woman like you would never have this kind of an accident, even on a bad day, your melatonin and cortisol levels are all over the place,” he replies.  “I’m a doctor, sweetheart; it’s my job to notice, whether or not it’s obvious.”  
  
You suppose he’s right, and you wordlessly agree to his treatment plan.  Shuffling around, you lie back on the bio bed and are surprised when Leonard approaches you a moment later with a blanket in his hands.  He drapes it over you and makes sure that you’re comfortable before speaking again.  
  
“Do you want me to give you something to help you sleep?”  He asks.  
  
You shake your head, your hair fanning out on the pillow beneath you.  
  
“No, this is around bedtime for me, I should be fine,” you answer.  “Or at least, it used to be.  I’m sure I’ll drift off soon.”  
  
Dr. McCoy smiles and pulls up a seat on a stool next to you, reaching out and gently ensuring that the blanket is tucked up as snugly as possible.  
  
“I’ll stay until you do,” he says softly, his voice scarcely above a whisper.  
  
You exhale a long breath, sinking into the exam bed beneath you and feeling reassured that you’re in good hands not just now, but, from what it seems like, for a long time coming, too.


	11. K is for Knee Pain

You groan out loud as you rub your aching right knee for what feels like the hundredth time today, wincing as it twinges with every little movement. It’s been acting up a lot lately, what with how much extra work you’ve been doing thanks to the alien virus that’s taken out half of your department, and nothing you’ve done has helped overly much. You’ve been taking the occasional painkiller, but the tablets can only do so much when you’re constantly stressing the injury.

Your pain has not gone unnoticed, either. You’ve seen Leonard giving you sidelong glances for days, watching you tend to your sore joint, but bless his heart, he’s been giving you some space, rather than swooping in with his tricorder and a hypo at every turn. You’re grateful, but you’re also getting to the point of needing a little bit of TLC.

You’re in your quarters after another long day down in the geology lab and sitting on your bed, bending and stretching your leg, trying to find some reprieve from the constant aching. As you do so, the door to your quarters slides open, admitting Leonard, and you smile tiredly up at him.

“Hey darlin’,” he says warmly, coming to sit next to you. 

You pull your knees up a bit, giving him more room, and your expression becomes a bit pained.

“Hey yourself,” you reply. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Leonard’s expression is light, but somewhat questioning.

“I missed you,” you expand. “And I’m going to stop with the suspense already and let you take a look at this knee.”

A smile turns up the corners of his lips.

“You’ve come to your senses,” he says with a chuckle. “I knew you’d see reason eventually.”

You roll your eyes, dropping your hands away from where they’re protectively cradling your knee. You lean back against the headboard as Leonard produces his tricorder, activating it and swiftly scanning your knee. You watch him as he checks the readout and then sets his tricorder aside.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” You ask, somewhat nervous.

“You’ve got some chronic inflammation there,” he explains. “And there’s degeneration of the cartilage in your knee. It’s the beginnings of arthritis, but it’s a little unusual at your age.”

You groan, leaning your head back against the headboard and shaking it.

“My mother was right,” you bemoan.

Leonard is confused.

“About what?” He asks.

You tip your head back down and level your gaze on him, a wry smile on your lips. 

“When I was a kid, I used to be a competitive skier,” you recall. “I was really good, until one day I screwed up. I pushed too hard; I knew I was too tired to keep going, but I thought just one more run. It wasn’t even a very hard run, but I guess I was tired enough that I missed the glinting of some ice on the run and hit it the wrong way. I tumbled down a sixty-foot stretch of the slope before I finally managed to dig my heels in and stop, but it was too late, I’d already buggered my knee. I was in a brace for a few months after that and I never really got back into skiing. Since then it aches on and off, especially if I’m on my feet too much.”

Leonard considers your story and nods.

“That makes a little more sense,” he muses. “Well, unfortunately, aside from resting the knee and giving you anti-inflammatories, there isn’t too much we can do, but increasing the circulation to the area might help make you more comfortable, too.”

As he speaks, his hands come to wrap around your knee, the heat of them making you sigh contentedly. His skilled, expert fingers knead ever so gently into the soft tissues there, massaging every bump and every crease, making you want to moan in ecstasy. His touch is incredibly therapeutic and though it’s focused on the single joint, you can feel your entire body following suit in relaxation.

“How’s that, darlin’?” Leonard asks after a few minutes.

“Divine,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head at you without ever removing his touch. You’re putty in his hands as he continues his gentle massage and you wish his hands would stray elsewhere, massage all of the places on your body that are positively aching.

“I knew my patience would pay off eventually,” Leonard murmurs.

You glance over at him, your eyes heavy-lidded from the enjoyment of his hands on you, however clinically.

“Oh?” You query.

“Waiting for you to come to me,” he supplies. “I bet you’d have come to me a lot sooner if you’d thought I’d prescribe this kind of treatment. Maybe you’ll think of that in the future.”

You shoot him a mock-glare and he grins at you, slipping his hands slowly from your knee and up your leg, pressing his fingertips into the tense knots of muscle in the path of his touch. Your breathing picks up and grows shallower as his hands near the apex of your thighs and you feel like you’re going to go mad at the prospect of the kind of teasing he might have in mind. Before you can think too hard, though, his hands are sliding back down again, returning to where they started, his fingers pressing into your knee once more.

“Patient is tolerating the treatment well, though extended massage proximal to the injured area appears to have caused an increase in her respiratory rate,” the doctor dictates as though you’re not right there, withering under his touch. “A complete physical exam may be prudent, in order to exclude the possibility of other contributing injuries.”

Picking up a nearby throw pillow, you chuck it at the doctor, glaring at him as he ducks it and meets your gaze, his hazel eyes laughing. The expression on his face is one of suggestion and promise, and your heart skips as you realize that he plans on making good on that last bit. 

God help you.


	12. L is for Laryngitis

You had done your best to avoid Leonard all day.  You had purposely crept through maintenance tunnels and taken circuitous routes to stay clear of med bay any time you’d had to pass by it, and by luck you hadn’t seen him around at lunch, either.  You’d messaged him in the morning, telling him you would be tied up all day on an assignment from your supervisory officer, which was entirely true, and that you would simply meet him after your shifts were over.  He’d accepted the excuse without a problem and you had managed not to cross paths with him since.  Ordinarily you would have been honest with him about not feeling your best from the start, but you’d had so much to get done today that you’d needed to be at work. Besides, you hadn’t been feeling  _too_  poorly.

Now it’s shift change and you’ve got nowhere to run. You consider heading back to your quarters to minimize the risk of infection to anyone else you may come into contact with, but you know that as soon as you’re comfortable, Leonard will find you and just haul you back off to med bay for an exam anyway, so in the interest of saving time and speeding up the process, you abort your original plan and just head straight for medical.

You wave at Christine Chapel as you pass her, heading for the CMO’s office.  You let yourself in without a knock and pause in the doorway, smiling softly at him as he glances up from his PADD.  
  
“Hey darlin’,” he says warmly.  “I’ll be done in a few minutes.  Why don’t you come and sit down?”  
  
You remain wordless and simply smile, nodding your head to encourage him to follow you.  He raises an eyebrow at you and rolls his eyes with a soft laugh; clearly he thinks you’re playing hard to get.  
  
“Alright, alright,” he gives in.  “You’re the boss.”  
  
Setting his PADD down, he moves around the desk and walks toward you.  Before he can reach and embrace you, however, you turn on your heel and walk out of his office.  He calls after you, striding faster to keep up with you as you lead him toward an exam room with an open door.  You glance in to make sure it’s empty before walking in and moving to the bio bed. You climb up onto it and look at Leonard as he crosses the room to stand in front of you, his expression quizzical.  
  
“What’s this about?”  He asks.  
  
You gesture to your throat.  
  
“I can’t talk,” you croak, your voice a barely-audible whisper.  
  
Leonard’s eyebrow quirks in concern and you’re done for – the worry on his handsome features makes you completely pliant in his hands and you know you’ll submit to whatever he proposes. Swallowing thickly around what feels like a stone lodged in your throat, you watch as he approaches the bio bed. He’s gentle with you as he touches your cheek to check for fever, then does one better and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.  
  
You close your eyes as his lips linger, reaching up to splay your hands on his chest as he pulls away to look at you again. He takes your face in his hands and strokes his thumbs over your cheekbones before allowing his touch to slip to your neck.  His fingertips prod at the column of your throat, eliciting some tenderness and coaxing a silent hiss of discomfort from you.  
  
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you so quiet and complacent,” Leonard says with a wicked grin, retrieving his tricorder and running a quick scan of you.  
  
You glare at him, huffing out a breath in protest, earning yourself a chuckle from the doctor.  
  
“I know, I know,” he says wryly.  “I’m sure you’ll more than make up for it once you’ve got your voice back.”  
  
 _He’s got that right_ , you muse. You sit patiently for him as he finishes the scan, slipping his tricorder back into his pocket after he reads the screen and glancing up at you.    
  
“I’ve got just the thing for this,” he says reassuringly.  
  
You wince in anticipation the hypo he’s no doubt got in mind and you’re surprised when he offers you a hand off of the bed instead.  You look up at him as you hop down, your gaze questioning as he leads you out of the exam room.  
  
“It’s a virus,” he explains.  “Nothing a little tea with honey won’t fix.  You’ll probably be talking again by tomorrow morning, and feeling back to normal within days.”  
  
You smile, relieved, and allow yourself to be led to your quarters.  Once you’re there, Leonard helps you out of your clothes and into bed before heading for the replicator to bring you some tea.  You’re curled up comfortably when he comes back to your side and you gesture for him to set the tea down on your bedside table.  
  
“Just what the doctor ordered,” you breathe as loudly as you can muster, your voice nearly becoming lost in the faint, ever-present background hum of the Enterprise.  
  
Leonard reaches out and touches a finger to your lips, cutting off any further verbal response.  
  
“What I’m ordering is for you not to try to talk for the rest of the evening,” the doctor says firmly, though his eyes are alight with warmth.  
  
You smile softly, simply nodding as he hands you to mug and encourages you to drink.  Your gratitude is unspoken but palpable, and you find yourself feeling better already just from Leonard’s proximity.  The whole situation was so much more pleasant than you had imagined it would be when you had first awakened in the morning and your relaxation is marred by the smallest spike of regret for not going to talk to the doctor sooner.    
  
To think, you could have been curled up in bed under the doctor’s protective, proficient care all along.


	13. M is for Menstruation

Leonard McCoy is a brilliant boyfriend, and an even better physician.  With the perfect balance of those two traits, he’s been watching you for months, keeping notes on the subtle ways in which you always behave differently under the influence of hormones.  
  
You can feel his eyes on you when you sit down to breakfast with an extra helping of whatever it is you’re in the mood for on that given day.  You know he’s paying attention when you white-knuckle the console you’re bending over as the cramping in your lower back and abdomen gets borderline unbearable. You can tell he’s noticed the swings in your temperament.  
  
To his credit, he hasn’t mentioned any of it. You can tell that he’s considered bringing it up, but his tact has kept him from being forward.  Similarly, you’ve considered bringing it to him, too, but talking to your lover about such intimate issues just feels like it would be too awkward and would take the romance right out of your relationship. So, you suffer in silence.

While Leonard hasn’t approached you as a physician, you’ve noticed that he has begun doing small things for you to help get you through your rough patches.  You always wake up to a cup of hot, freshly-brewed coffee sitting on your bedside table and prepared just the way you like it; the caffeine helps to ward off the cramping and irritability.  Your slippers are always lined up right next to your bed for you to slip your feet into so you’re not stepping barefoot onto the cold floor and it makes you smile, giving your day a good start.    
  
It’s the same today.  You’re having a particularly difficult cycle this time and it’s gotten more than just Leonard’s attention.  Throughout the day, no less than a half dozen people have asked you if you’re alright and as you walk toward your quarters, Uhura joins you and gently tries to suggest that you head to med bay for some painkillers.  
  
Politely declining her suggestion, you part ways as you reach your quarters and step inside while she continues down the hall. Once your door is soundly closed behind you, you groan aloud and set your PADD down on the counter, heading straight for your closet.  Quickly changing out of your uniform, you slip into your favorite pajamas: one of Leonard’s old, soft, well-worn t-shirts and a comfortable pair of shorts.  You move to the bathroom to freshen up and then finally make it to your bed, crawling in under the covers, curling up on your side and whining softly in pain as you wrap your arms around your middle and pull your knees up in an attempt to ease the cramping.  
  
A while later – you don’t know how long, exactly – your door slides open again, admitting Leonard into your quarters. You can hear his footsteps nearing and you feel the warmth radiating from his palm before his hand comes into contact with your shoulder.  
  
“Roll over for me, darlin’,” he instructs softly.  “Onto your back.”  
  
It takes you a few moments to uncurl yourself and you take a shaky breath as you do, your lower abdomen knotting in on itself as you straighten your legs out.  Leonard is sitting beside you as you finally comply, letting your head fall back against the pillows.  You’re anticipating the whir of a tricorder but instead you feel Leonard pulling the covers you’re under down to your thighs and pulling your t-shirt up.  He slips his hand just under the waistband of your shorts and splays it between your hipbones, letting the heat of his touch ease some of the tension there.  
  
“Try to relax,” the doctor urges you.  “This’ll help, I promise.”  
  
You nod, closing your eyes as his hand begins to massage gently back and forth over the tightly coiled muscles beneath it. At first it’s worse and you nearly reach out to push his hand away, but you persevere and you’re glad you did as the tension begins to fade the longer he carefully rubs at your aching pelvis.  
  
“I wish you’d let me examine you,” he murmurs, breaking the silence without ever missing a beat with his fingers.  “It’s probably nothing serious, but I’m sure there’s something I could do to make it easier on you.”  
  
You open your eyes to meet his gaze, arching into his touch a little, encouraging him to massage a little harder to get what remains of the tightness in your abdomen.  
  
“Not right now,” you say tiredly.  “Maybe some time.”  
  
Leonard nods.  
  
“I can accept that,” he says gently.  “Roll over.”  
  
You groan as his hand lifts, leaving a bit of a chill in its wake, but you comply, however reluctantly.  Settling yourself face down, you gather the pillow into your arms and lay your head sideways so you can see Leonard out of the corner of your eye.  Just like he had before, he slips the hem of your t-shirt up, this time resting both hands on your lower back.  You exhale a long breath as his hands knead the muscles along either side of your spinal column, just above your tailbone.  
  
“How did you get to be so good at this?” You ask as he works all of the pain away.  
  
Leonard laughs softly, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your lower back.  
  
“I’m a doctor, darlin’,” he states.  “I know everything about your body – how to take it apart, how to put it back together, and how to make you feel good.”  
  
 _And that he does_ , you think wryly, your hormone-addled mind going to somewhere else entirely at his words. You know his phrasing was deliberate, though, and you reach over, playfully shoving his thigh.  
  
“Hold that thought for a couple more days,” you groan, flashing him a wicked, coy grin  “I’m going to need you to make me feel good after all of this.”  
  
“I can’t wait,” Leonard growls seductively.  
  
And with that, neither can you.


	14. N is for Nosebleed

You feel equal parts guilty for violating the sanctity of your boyfriend’s office and excited at how much of a kick you and Jim are going to get out of pulling a mostly-harmless prank on your CMO. The two of you are in cahoots and have been playing practical jokes on the whole crew for days and now it’s finally Leonard’s turn to get pranked.  
  
You hover by the door, your ear pressed to the pane, listening for any incoming footsteps as Jim places an air horn under the seat of the doctor’s chair, securing carefully into place and making sure it’s positioned properly so that it goes off when Leonard’s weight on the chair causes it to sink a fraction.  
  
Once Jim gives you the okay, you rush away from the door and head for the small closet at the side of the office.  You open the door, grinning like a lunatic, and step inside, shifting over to leave just enough room for Jim.  He steps in beside you and you close the door – it’s close quarters but it’ll all be worth it when you two get to see the look on Leonard’s face when he sits down.

You wait, whispering to one another, and eventually the door to the office slides open, admitting the doctor.  You’re both getting a little stiff from being crammed into the closet and you find yourself leaning against the door.  The two of you watch through a minute crack as the doctor makes his way toward his chair, but stops just short of sitting down. You grumble quietly and suck in a sharp breath when the pressure you’re exerting on the closet door causes it to creak just a little bit.  
  
You and Jim press back away from the door as the doctor’s head swivels in your general direction.  You watch in horror and disappointment as he raises a disbelieving eyebrow and approaches the closet that you and the captain are trapped in. Before you know it, the doctor is standing beside the closet and you can hear the questioning and irritation in his voice.  
  
“I can hear you idiots,” he says wryly.  “What, you didn’t think I’d know you were coming? The whole ship knows what the two of you have been getting up to lately.”  
  
Knowing the jig is up, you roll your eyes and reach out, pushing the closet door open to reveal yourself and your partner in crime.  Leonard breathes an exasperated sigh at the two of you.  
  
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, looking at Jim and then at you in turn.  “I would expect this from you, but I trusted you, Y/N.”  
  
Jim laughs and you reach out to pat Leonard’s arm as you move to step out of the closet.  You’re foiled, however, when your foot finds Jim’s in the close quarters and instead of stepping out you’re falling.  It all happens so quickly that neither man can react to catch you and their twin cries of  _watch out_  do nothing to help, either.  In a split second, you’re lying face-down on the floor, agony exploding white-hot through your head, originating at your nose.  
  
Two pairs of strong hands roll you over and you’re clutching your face as you feel blood, hot, coppery, and sticky, pouring from your nose.  Tears are streaming from your eyes and you can’t see through the haze of pain; even words are difficult for you to grasp at the moment.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dr. McCoy barks as he takes your face in his hands to get a look at you.  
  
You whine softly as he presses on your cheekbones with his thumbs, ensuring you haven’t broken anything there.  The pain from your obviously-fractured nose is so intense that you can feel it all the way across your face and down into your jaw. His fingertips continue their examination, skirting along the angle of your jaw before finally coming up to touch your nose.  
  
The scream you let out when he touches the break is appropriately blood-curdling and he immediately stops what he’s doing, gently stroking your cheek again, all traces of anger gone from his tone as he speaks again.  
  
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he says softly.  “I need to get you to a bed so I can stop this bleeding and set that break.”  
  
“It h-hurts,” you say weakly, trying to breathe through the pain.  
  
“I know, and I’ll take care of that for you,” he promises.  “We’re just going to move you first.  Hold on”  
  
You brace yourself for more pain as Leonard instructs Jim to carry you to a bed out in med bay while he retrieves some things he’ll need.  You wrap your arms around the captain’s shoulders as he hefts you up off of the floor, jostling you as little as possible.  You whine the whole time he carries you as each step causes a fresh wellspring of agony in your face and you’re glad when the two of you finally reach and empty bed and Jim sets you down as gently as he can.  You sit up as blood continues to pour from your broken nose to avoid choking and you cough, spitting up some blood you’ve managed to swallow already.  
  
Leonard is by your side moments later, offering you a handful of clean, white gauze to press to your nose to slow the outpouring of blood.  Your hands are shaky as tears continue to fall from your eyes but you’re comforted by the presences of the two men at your side.  As Leonard loads a cartridge into the hypo, Jim is rubbing your back in soothing circles, apologizing for all of this being his idea in the first place.   
  
“Alright, darlin’,” Leonard’s voice cuts through your haze of pain.  “Put your chin up a little; this’ll help the pain.”  
  
You tip your head up as you’ve been instructed and you don’t even feel the usual bite of the injection as the hypo discharges, your grasp on sensation having been reduced to the pain in your face. Almost immediately, however, you feel the pain begin to fade and within moments it’s a much more dull and manageable sort of feeling.  You sigh deeply and pull the gauze away from your nose, wrinkling your eyebrows in disgust at how bloody it is.  
  
“Hold still,” the doctor instructs.  
  
You realize he’s got his tricorder in hand and you do as he says, waiting patiently for him to run a quick scan of your injury. It doesn’t take him long and soon he’s putting the instrument away again.  
  
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Leonard states.  
  
You glare at him; it certainly  _feels_  as bad as you thought.  
  
“The fracture isn’t displaced,” he continues. “I don’t need to set it, it just needs a little attention with an osteoregenerator and you’ll be well on your way to healing.”  
  
“What about the bleeding?”  You mumble, your words coming out sounding like you have a bad cold.  
  
“I’ll give you another hypo,” he pauses as you groan.  “With a vasoconstrictor in it, it’ll help to slow it down until it’s mended some.”  
  
You nod and sigh, shifting so you can pull your legs up onto the bio bed and lie back.  Leonard walks away and returns with another hypo moments later.  You turn your head obediently as he gives you some more medicine and then relax when he’s finished.  You glance over at Jim as you do so and his expression is stricken with guilt.  Reaching out, you take the captain’s hand, giving it a squeeze.  
  
“It’s fine,” you assure him.  “I’m fine.  It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Jim flashes you a wry smile, and you see a skeptical look on Leonard’s face as you glance at the other man instead.  You can tell he’s not happy with his best friend for putting you up to all the hijinks, but he respects your right to make your own choices, however stupid sometimes, so he keeps quiet and lets you and the captain sort things out.  You know that he’s just angry out of a sense of duty and protection to you, and also out of love, and you smile softly at him as he picks up the osteoregenerator, adjusts the frequency to mend cartilage, and begins to wave it slowly over the injured area.  
  
The procedure takes about ten minutes and goes by without incidence.  A little bit of warmth and a strange, static-like sensation pervade your senses as the instrument does its work and when Leonard is finished you reach up to touch your nose, inspecting his handiwork.  You can immediately tell the swelling has gone down a lot and as you gently prod the bridge of your nose it feels a lot more stable than it had before. The bleeding has stopped, too.  
  
“Thank you,” you say softly, moving to sit up again.  
  
A hand lands on your shoulder, keeping you down on the bio bed.  
  
“You stay here and rest,” Dr. McCoy instructs. “I’ll send Christine over to clean up what’s left of the blood on your face while I go do some charting and then I’m taking you back to your quarters before you can get into any more trouble.”  
  
Jim interrupts as the doctor goes to summon the nurse.  
  
“I’ll do it,” he offers.  “I’ve cleaned up plenty of my own injuries before, I can handle a little bit of blood.”  
  
Leonard shrugs and nods, gesturing to where the plastic basins and cloths are kept beside a nearby sink.  As Jim moves to fill a basin with water, Leonard reaches out to gently stroke your hair.  
  
“Have you learned your lesson, darlin’?” He asks.  
  
“Probably not,” you reply with a wicked grin.  
  
He makes a noise of exasperation and rolls his eyes, shaking his head at you.  He leaves your side to go work on his patient charts just as Jim returns with the wash basin.  You watch Leonard disappear into his office as Jim begins to clean away the blood on your face and neck, his touch gentle and competent, and you realize that you two had never owned up to just what you’d been doing in the doctor’s office.  
  
“Oh no,” you say, your tone laced with dread.  
  
At that moment, a loud, irritating air horn blast sounds in Leonard’s office and is very closely followed by a crashing noise and a lot of yelling.  As the doctor stumbles out of his office, his expression murderous and his hair standing on end from the fright, you and Jim dissolve into fits of laughter, tears of mirth streaming down your faces.  
  
“I’m going to kill you both,” Leonard growls.  
  
You want to apologize, you really do, but you’re laughing far too hard and will probably continue laughing for at least the foreseeable future  
  
The injury was  _so_  worth it.


	15. O is for Otitis

Your daughter has been fussing about all morning.  She’s irritable, crying on and off, not eating well, and refusing to go out to play with the other kids.  Worrying about her coming down with something, you decide to check her temperature. It’s a chore and a half in itself because while she doesn’t mind daddy examining her, she’s a little more hesitant with mommy.  Still, you manage to calm her enough to get her to sit still while the thermometer does its job and you frown at the readout when it’s done; your little girl has a fever.  
  
It’s easy enough to convince her to get dressed when you tell her you’re going to see daddy.  You follow her to her bedroom and help her into a clean pair of pajamas so that she’s comfortable in case Leonard’s busy when you arrive.  A few minutes later, you’ve got a bag packed and slung over your shoulder and the two of you are walking the short distance from home to the Academy’s medical center.  

As you walk through the building’s front doors, a few familiar faces pass you by and stop just long enough to admire how much your daughter has grown since they’ve last seen her.  She’s clinging to you, her illness making her timid, and you pick her up to carry her the rest of the way to the outpatient clinic where you know Leonard is working for the day.  
  
You breeze into the department, looking around for any sign of your husband.  When you don’t spot him right off the bat, you walk up to the reception desk and smile at the girl behind the counter.  
  
“Where’s my daddy?”  Your daughter asks softly, barely peeking out from where she’s buried her head against your shoulder.  
  
The receptionist smiles and points down the hallway.  
  
“He’s helping another little girl just like you feel better right now,” she replies.  “But I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you when he’s finished!”  
  
Moments later, as though he’s been summoned by the mention of him, Leonard emerges from an exam room, followed by a smiling Sulu and a giggling little girl in her father’s arms.  Your own daughter brightens at the sight of her father and her friend, and she’s waving as you carry her over in their direction.  
  
“Daddy!”  She shrieks happily, her illness forgotten as only a child can manage.  
  
“Hey, pumpkin,” Leonard says warmly, reaching out to take the squirming girl from your arms.  
  
You say a quick hello to Mr. Sulu and his daughter as your husband busies himself with greeting your child and the two of them move off quickly with promises to catch up soon for a play date. Turning your attention back to your own kin, you smile softly at how naturally Leonard and your daughter interact.  
  
“What brings my two favorite girls in here today?”  Leonard asks, glancing over at you as he playfully tickles the little girl in his arms.  
  
“She’s got a fever,” you reply.  “She’s been fussy all morning.  I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”  
  
Leonard frowns and slips a hand up to the girl’s forehead, getting a sense of her elevated temperature as he does so. He nods and then brightens his expression once more to keep your daughter comfortable, carrying her right back into the exam room he’s just vacated.  You follow the two of them inside and slide the door closed in your wake, watching Leonard set your squirming child down on the bio bed.  
  
“No, daddy, up,” the girl demands.  
  
His expression is soft and kind as he puts his hands on her small shoulders, soothing her, encouraging her to settle.  
  
“Not right now, angel,” he gently rebukes her. “Daddy needs to see what’s wrong so he can make you feel better, okay?”  
  
You can see the tears building in her eyes but Leonard won’t let them come.  He’s gentle with her, and extraordinarily kind.  He ruffles her curls and leans down to kiss her forehead, smoothly and without incident activating the bed she’s sitting on.  She’s never been overly fond of being examined and Leonard is acutely aware of the fact, so he’s taking his time to make her comfortable.  
  
While he’s been trained in the latest of instruments that minimize the amount of actual physical contact required between a patient and physician to facilitate an examination, he’s going back to medicine’s roots with your daughter, knowing that a father’s calming touch is much more conducive to a good, tearless assessment than all of the bells and whistles your daughter can’t understand enough to trust at her age.  
  
She’s grumpy as he takes her temperature, but she’s putting up with it so far.  She’s fussing around a little and you come over to rub her back as Leonard continues his exam.  She giggles as he prods gently at her neck, checking her lymph nodes, but starts to fidget and pull away when he produces an otoscope to take a look at her ears. The closer he looms, the more she tries to escape, burrowing into your chest.  Leonard stops, stepping back to give her some space.  
  
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”  He asks.  “I just need to take a quick peek at your ears.  You’ve done this before, you know it’ll be okay.”  
  
“It’s gonna hurt,” your daughter whines.  
  
Leonard raises an eyebrow, confident he’s figured out the problem just based on her reaction.  
  
“Is your ear sore, darlin’?”  He asks further.  
  
She nods and Leonard sets the otoscope aside in favor of his tricorder.  While she’s still curled up against your chest and before she can even sense that he’s scanning her, he waves it around her ear and reads the display.  Slipping the instrument back into his pocket, he reaches out to take her tiny hand in his, squeezing it gently.  
  
“All done, angel,” he reassures her softly. “You did a great job.”  
  
She sniffs and rubs a hand across her face to wipe her tears away as she looks over at him.  You pull back a little as she reaches for him, letting her gravitate into her father’s arms.  He wraps her up in a big hug and lets go with one hand after a moment, reaching into his pocket to pull out a sucker.  It’s red, your daughter’s favorite, and she squeals in delight as he hands it to her. She’s already sucking on it seconds later as he turns his attention to you with a smile.  
  
“Just a mild ear infection,” he reassures you. “I’ll send you girls home with some medicine that’ll make her feel better in no time.  She’ll be back to her old self by the time I get home tonight.”  
  
You smile and step forward, planting your palms on Leonard’s chest and standing on your tip toes to press a kiss to his lips.  
  
“What, I don’t get a lollipop?”  You ask, your tone a mingling of gratefulness and feigned reproach.    
  
Leonard laughs, reaching into his pocket again, pulling out a second sucker for you.  It’s green and you take it gleefully, tearing off the wrapper and putting it in your mouth.  As you suck on it, Leonard watches you, his lips twitching into an affectionate grin.  
  
“Just don’t tell Jim I keep those on me,” he says wryly.  “Or he’ll want one every time he’s in here.”  
  
It’s your turn to chuckle and you crunch down on the last of the lollipop, chewing the small shards until they’re miniscule enough to instantly melt on your tongue.  You’re completely sure your lips and tongue are discolored from the candy, but you couldn’t care less as Leonard kisses you once more before stepping away. He opens a cabinet across the room and pulls out a handful of foil packets.  
  
“Give her one of these for the fever when you get home,” he instructs.  “She’ll need an antibiotic, too, and I’ll pick it up on the way home.  I’ll see you girls in a few hours.”  
  
You nod, accepting the packets and tucking them into the shoulder bag you’d brought along with you.  Moving back over to the table, you pick up your daughter, her face all red from the sucker, and turn to leave.  Before you can go, Leonard steps up to you with a tissue, cleaning some of the sticky redness off of your child’s face before giving her one last kiss on the forehead.  
  
“Be good for your mom,” he instructs her, to which she nods her head sleepily, clearly tuckered out after the trip to the clinic and the fussing.  “I’ll see you soon, darlin’.”  
  
Leonard escorts you out to the waiting area and waves you off as you carry your now-sleeping baby girl back home.  Your heart is full of love for your husband and your child, and especially for the bond that they share.  You can’t wait for him to get home in a few hours so you can watch the two of them together again.    
  
Nothing in the world gives you more joy than your family.


	16. P is for Pneumonia

**P is for Pneumonia  
**  
You cough violently, almost to the point of retching, as you’re showered in pollen from several extremely large, hibiscus-like flowers hanging overhead.  You’d accidentally spooked some birds a few moments ago and they’d liberated the pollen as they’d flown by the flowers on their way off.  Now you’re waving your arms frantically, trying to clear the air as the pollen settles on your clothes and hair in a thin layer, the fine, golden powder smudging all over you as you try to brush it off.  
  
You’ve been sampling the local flora on the previously uncontacted planet your team is scouting, but the pollen is so irritating that you have to stop.  Packing up your kit and samples, you rush away from the area, still coughing forcefully as you break out into a nearby clearing and take your first proper breath since before the pollen shower.

Pulling your comm out of your pocket and flipping it open, you put a call out to the rest of the away team.  
  
“Y/L/N to away crew,” you call.  
  
“ _Go ahead, Lieutenant_.”  
  
“I had a small issue with some sampling, I’m heading back to the Enterprise now,” you communicate.  
  
“ _Copy that.  We’ll see you back on the ship, Lieutenant_.”  
  
You nod, though there’s no one to see it, and change frequencies on your comm.  
  
“Lieutenant Y/L/N to USS Enterprise,” you transmit.  “Requesting to beam back to the ship.”  
  
“ _Aye, Lieutenant_ ,” Mr. Chekov’s voice comes through the comm.  “ _Hold on, we are beaming you up now_.”  
  
A warm, golden light surrounds you and seconds later you’re spirited away, back to the ship.  As you’re deposited on the transporter pad, you glance down at yourself and see just how covered you are in pollen now that you’ve got good lighting; your shirt is shimmering with so much of the golden dust that you could almost pass for command.  
  
You step off of the platform as another paroxysm of coughs wracks your body and immediately the captain swoops in, explaining that he’d been monitoring your progress on the planet below and is curious about your premature return.  His curiosity is satisfied when he sees the state of you, however, and he glances over at Mr. Chekov at the console.  
  
“Alert medical that they have a patient incoming,” he orders.  “Routine precautions.”  
  
Jim takes your kit from you and hands it off to another scientist to take back to your lab as he walks you down the hall to medical.  You’re leaving a trail of gold dust everywhere you step and you smile wryly as your coughing subsides.  
  
“Sorry about the mess, captain,” you say hoarsely.  
  
“Nothing our clean up crew can’t fix,” the captain assures you.  “I’m more worried about you.  What happened?”  
  
You hold off on answering as the two of you exit the turbo lift and step into med bay.  A nurse immediately rushes over to you and looks at the powder on your uniform.  
  
“Captain, if you please, could you wait in that room there?”  She asks, pointing a short ways over.  “I’m just going to get her into a decontamination shower and a clean gown.”  
  
You allow yourself to be led away as the captain complies and before long, you’re being rinsed off, your hair matting from the wetness as streams of gold-flecked water run in rivulets over your body.  It takes a good ten minutes to get all of the residue and once you’re clean, the nurse hands you a hospital gown and a robe.  You dress quickly, your breathing easing a little now that you’re clean, and you follow the nurse back to the room she’d indicated previously.  
  
You step inside and take a seat on the bio bed, smiling over at the captain as the nurse leaves you.  A nagging fatigue settles over you and you sway dizzily, throwing out a hand to catch yourself.  Before the captain can ask if you’re alright, the door to the room opens and a familiar face breezes into the room.  
  
“My God, Y/N, what happened?”  Dr. McCoy asks as he moves to where you’re seated.  
  
“She was covered in some kind of dust,” Jim offers helpfully.  “She was coughing when we beamed her aboard.”  
  
The CMO nods and pulls out his tricorder, scanning you as you fight to hold yourself up.  The fatigue is worsening rapidly and you can feel your heart rate spiralling out of control.  
  
“It was pollen,” you supply.  “I wasn’t able to isolate any sort of chemical signature from it before I left the ground, I couldn’t breathe and I had to get out of there.”  
  
Leonard makes a non-comital noise as he glances at the tricorder to assess your vital signs.  
  
“How’s your breathing now?”  He asks.  “Your oxygen saturation seems fine, but your heart rate’s higher than I’m comfortable with.”  
  
“It’s a lot better,” you reply.  “I think that pollen just irritated my throat. I’m dizzy, though.”  
  
Ordinarily you try your best to avoid admitting seemingly minor symptoms to your often-overprotective fiancé, but this time you’re honest.  You’re worried that it’s not just a benign dizziness, what with the fatigue, and since you’re in med bay and wearing nothing but a thin gown and robe anyway, you figure you might as well let Leonard do what he does best and take excellent medical care of you.  
  
“I’m not surprised, your blood pressure’s dropping,” he says with a frown.  “Lie down for me, Y/N, I’m going to take a blood sample and start an IV.”  
  
He turns his attention on the captain.  
  
“Jim, would you mind having Christine send a sample of the pollen off of her uniform to the lab?”  He instructs.  “I need them to identify any toxins that may be present in those plants.  If you can remember it, ask her to have them check for neurotoxins and hemotoxins.”  
  
Jim nods and takes his leave.  Meanwhile, Leonard is helping you lie back, getting you settled so he can get to work.  He’s quick and efficient, taking blood and starting the aforementioned IV in under two minutes without much discomfort to you.  You sigh as he leaves you for a few minutes to drop off the blood sample and you’re glad to have him by your side again when he returns.  
  
He sits down on the stool next to your bed and watches the holoscreen overhead for changes in your condition as he takes your hand in his and strokes it gently.  
  
“Am I going to be okay?”  You ask, still feeling uneasy and unwell.  
  
“I’ll make sure of it,” Leonard promises. “But if your heart rate doesn’t come down on its own right away, I’m going to have to give you something for it. Your vitals aren’t as stable as I’d like them.”  
  
You nod, appreciating his honesty even though you’re scared by his grave tone.  He reassures you wordlessly, reaching up to gently pet your hair as you wait to hear what’s been found in the pollen and your blood sample. Thankfully, due to the many advanced technological advances in the sciences, you’re not left waiting for long. The door to the room slides open and Christine strides in with a brief smile at you, holding a PADD out to Leonard.  
  
You watch as he takes it, glancing over the results and frowning deeply.  He looks up at Christine as he speaks and asks her to fetch him some medications. Once she departs, he turns back to you.  
  
“The good news is, we know what’s in the pollen,” he explains.  “The bad news is that it’s a pretty nasty bunch of toxins and the cocktail of drugs I’m going to have give you to counteract it might have some side effects.  They’ll be temporary, if not a little unpleasant, and after they’ve passed you’ll be in the clear.”  
  
Your shoulders slacken with relief at his words and you nod.  You’re happy to handle anything if it means that the God-awful fluttering in your chest and dizziness that’s enveloping you will lift.  
  
Christine returns moments later with a number of syringes and you avert your gaze as Leonard injects their contents, one by one, into your IV line.  You hiss in pain as some of the medications burn like a wildfire under your skin and he murmurs gentle apologies as he gives you the last of them.  Once they’re all in, he’s reading the numbers on the holoscreen once more, undoubtedly committing them to memory so he can quickly determine if the drugs are working a short time from now.  
  
Over the next few hours, you’re subjected to a whole gauntlet of side effects – nausea, muscle spasms, violent headaches, blurred vision, labored breathing – from the medications but at the end of it all you feel like a new person.  Leonard is content that your heart rate and blood pressure have stabilized, and after one final scan he clears you to leave the med bay and get some rest back in your own quarters.  You give him a quick kiss as you head out, smiling as he promises to come check on you as soon as his shift is over.  
  
The next several days pass uneventfully and the pollen-induced illness is quickly becoming a distant memory until you wake up one morning with a cough worse than the one you’d had initially after your exposure.  Leonard is awake next to you the second he hears you coughing and he’s rubbing your back as you draw in a ragged breath.  He’d left his tricorder behind the night before in an attempt to escape med bay before his already-overtime shift got any longer, but he pulls an old stethoscope out of a box of personal belongings in his bedside table.  You’ve seen it before and you know it belonged to his grandfather and had been handed down to him as a graduation present when he finished medical school, but you’ve never seen him use it.  
  
You shiver as he pulls your shirt up and presses the icy cold metal disc of the instrument to your back, taking the deep breaths he’s requesting every time he moves it to another spot.  The deep breathing is making you dizzy and you’re glad for a respite when he finally pulls away and sets the stethoscope aside again.  
  
“I think you’ve got pneumonia,” he comments. “I’m going to take you down to medical and we’ll get a proper look at you.”  
  
You nod and allow yourself to be hauled to your feet and led from the bedroom, still clad in your pajamas.  You get a number of concerned looks from fellow crew members as you walk down the hallway and enter the turbo lift.    
  
You’re coughing and wheezing as you reach medical and Leonard guides you over to a nearby bed, getting you settled on it. You move to lie down but a hand on your shoulder stops you.  
  
“It’ll be harder to breathe lying down,” Leonard explains.  “Just sit tight for a few minutes.  I’m going to run a quick scan and then give you something to help you breathe.”  
  
You’re glad to hear there’s something he can give you to help with the rapidly growing tightness in your chest because the longer the time goes on, the less air you’re able to get in.  As he steps away briefly to pick up a scanner, you lean forward, gasping for breath, your chest feeling like it’s on fire.  
  
Leonard returns to your side a moment later and activates the scanner, holding it in front of your chest.  He’s grumbling to himself as he studies the image and almost as quickly as he’d begun the scan, he’s setting the instrument aside and putting a hand on your forehead.  He can see your temperature on the bio bed’s holoscreen, but he’s also a very tactile person.  You don’t mind, anyway – his touch is a comfort as you struggle to breathe.  
  
“It’s definitely pneumonia,” he confirms. “There’s evidence of scarring in your lungs, especially around the mainstem bronchi.  I think that pollen you inhaled might have caused a lot of localized inflammation.  Just try to breathe for me while I go get something that’ll help.”  
  
You nod, tears stinging your eyes as you begin to feel like the world is pressing in on you.  The lack of proper oxygenation is amping up your anxiety and by the time Leonard returns you’ve worked yourself into a full-blown panic attack. He rushes over to you and sets down the instruments in his hands, taking your face in them instead and turning your face up to look at him.  
  
“I’ve got you, Y/N,” he says reassuringly. “Just bear with me.  I’m going to put a respirator unit on you, it’ll help you breathe until the medication can start to work.  I’m going to give you a hypo and a nebulized drug to help ease your breathing.  If you start to feel too panicked just let me know and I’ll slow down and explain things, okay?”  
  
You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks as he lets you go.  You close your eyes as he places the respirator mask over your mouth and nose, feeling even more claustrophobic at first and reaching out, balling your fists in Leonard’s tunic to keep him close.  He murmurs soft reassurances as he activates the mask, sending a flow of pure, concentrated oxygen and a medication to help you breathe easier through the device and straight into your airways.  
  
“I’m going to give you a hypo now, darlin’,” Bones says softly.  “Just concentrate on breathing for me.”  
  
You do as he says, forcing yourself to take breaths as deep as possible while he prepares the injection.  It’s all over with in seconds and he’s gently massaging the spot where the hypo made contact, encouraging the medication to be absorbed more quickly and the pain to recede.  
  
He stays by your side for the next several minutes, gently stroking your hair and rubbing your back as the drugs begin to take effect.  It’s not long before you’re able to breathe considerably more easily, but it feels like a hundred years have gone by and you’re exhausted by the effort of breathing and the anxiety.  As you take deeper and slower breaths, Leonard pulls away from you long enough to glance at the readout on the overhead monitor.  
  
“That’s good, Y/N, keep it up,” he encourages. “Your oxygen levels are looking much better.  You should be able to lie down and still breathe easily now.  Do you want to try that?”  
  
You nod and allow Leonard to help you lift your legs up onto the bed.  You shift around and lie back, closing your eyes and waiting for your breathing to worsen again.  When it doesn’t, you allow yourself to relax, letting out a long breath and fogging the respirator mask.  As you lie there and breathe, Leonard hovers over you, and when you open your eyes you catch a fleeting glimpse of a somewhat worried expression on the doctor’s face but it’s gone before you can be sure of what you saw.  Still, you’re curious.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  You ask, the respirator muffling your words a bit.  
  
Leonard sits in silence for a long few moments and you begin to worry.  He can tell that you’re getting nervous again by the way you tense up beneath his touch and he quickly moves to press a kiss to your forehead to soothe you.  
  
“I was just wondering whether to tell you now or later,” he says vaguely.  
  
You frown, reaching up to pull the respirator off of your face.  You can tell he’s not happy when you dislodge it but you’re breathing easily enough for now and so he doesn’t admonish you.  
  
“You’re scaring me,” you say tiredly.  “What’s wrong?”  
  
Leonard shakes his head.  
  
“Nothing’s wrong, darlin’,” he says softly, his eyes searching yours as he tries to formulate his thoughts into words. “When I looked over the results of your blood work the other day, I found something unexpected.”  
  
Your heart rate rises sharply as you consider his words.  
  
“What is it?”  You ask, though you’re not sure you want to know.  
  
Leonard runs his free hand through his hair and smiles at you, the expression becoming somewhat pained looking as he continues to consider how to break the news to you and how you’re going to take it.  
  
“This might not be the greatest time for you to find out,” he continues.  “But, Y/N… You’re pregnant.”  
  
Your eyes widen and you consciously choose to put the respirator back on as your breathing starts to pick up with the implications of his words sinking in.  
  
“I’m pregnant,” you reiterate, the words feeling foreign and unreal as they roll off of your tongue.  
  
Leonard nods.  
  
“Not very far along,” he explains.  “Your HCG levels are still relatively low, but definitely well above normal.”  
  
You close your eyes and force yourself to slow your racing heart.  You’ve never really considered having children, and the thought of giving birth scares the living hell out of you.  Leonard can see that you’re frightened and he stands up, leaning in over you to block out some of the intrusive stimuli – lights, sounds – and meeting your gaze.  He rests a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently to help ground you as you work yourself into a heightened state of anxiety.  
  
“You’re going to be okay,” he assures you.  
  
You know that, rationally, but right now you’re definitely not okay, and you’re glad for the distinction he’s made.  You nod once and reach up, grasping around for his hand.  He takes yours and gives it a gentle squeeze as you cling to him, thoughts reeling, heart racing.    
  
“I’ll get you through this,” Leonard promises firmly.  “We have all the time in the world to think about it later.  Right now, just breathe for me and focus on getting over this pneumonia, alright?”  
  
You swallow thickly, squeezing his hand in agreement.  He smiles at you softly and leans closer, touching his forehead to yours in an affectionate gesture.  
  
“I love you so much, Y/N,” he whispers.  “You’re going to be a great mom.”  
  
You smile weakly beneath the respirator, trying to let his words fill you with that conviction.  You’ll do your damn best to be a great mom, but first you have to get through the pneumonia, panic, and pregnancy.  
  
It’s going to be a long nine months.


	17. Q is for Quadriplegia

Every muscle in your body screamed at you as you ran.  The rushing of blood in your ears was so loud that you barely heard the cries of the angry locals chasing you and your crew through the dense jungle and the burning in your chest as you fought to breathe was so horrible that you felt like you were going to collapse at any moment.  Starfleet had put you in peak physical condition, but nothing could have prepared you for this kind of running for your life as an uncontacted tribe chases you and the rest of the away team down after spotting you on a routine observatory mission.  
  
You’re terrified as you watch members of your crew get mowed down all around you.  You’re not sure if they’re being hit with something or simply tripping, but you can’t afford to slow down and find out.  You keep running, hoping that you can run long enough for reinforcements to show up and go back for your crew, but it’s all for naught as you feel a needle-sharp dart pierce the skin of your neck.

The second the dart makes contact, it’s as though you’ve lost all control over your muscles.  You collapse to the ground, gasping as you become winded and bounce along the substrate from your momentum.  Once you come to a stop, you try to pick yourself up but to no avail. You try to turn your head but even that proves to be a chore.  
  
A moment later, a hand lands on your face and forces your head around.  You find yourself staring into the face of one of the locals, unable to defend yourself or flee, though you’re not frightened for long.  Seconds later, the man holding you holds out a palm in front of your face, blowing a super fine, shimmering powder into the air around you. As you inhale, you feel your eyelids growing heavy and within moments you’re unconscious.  
  
You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious and no real recollection of what happened to you as you slowly regain consciousness and orientate yourself to your surroundings.  You’re in a cave of some sort, with soft soil beneath you and a flickering torch impaled into the ground near your head.  You try to turn your head but you can’t, and you begin to panic as you realize you can’t quite draw a full breath, either. Swallowing thickly, nearly choking on your own saliva, you groan.  
  
Your wakefulness has not gone unnoticed, and you attempt to cower away in fear as a pair of legs appears in your line of sight.  The same man from earlier crouches in front of you and says something in a completely unfamiliar language.  He’s peering at you curiously, his expression cruel and uncaring, and you’re prepared for the worst when you suddenly hear a phaser blast and see him topple over, clearly unconscious.  
  
You’re still frozen, paralyzed from head to toe, as more legs appear before you.  Several pairs branch off to either side of the cavernous space you’re in, apparently checking in on other people.  One pair, however, rushes in your direction, crouching down before you.  
  
“Y/N!”  Mr. Sulu’s voice registers in your ears.  “It’s alright, you’re safe.”  
  
Holstering his phaser, he reaches out to put a hand on your shoulder, rolling you over.  Your facial expression is frozen in an impassive state and you can move nothing but your eyes, glancing up at him, finding it difficult to even so much as blink.  He leans in closer to you, scanning you with what you assume to be a medical tricorder, and then puts a hand on your shoulder.  
  
“I’m going to take you back to the ship,” he says reassuringly.  “You’re not the only one in this condition, and medical is already working on a cure. Let’s get you up to Dr. McCoy.”  
  
With his hand still on your shoulder, he calls up to the Enterprise to beam the two of you up.  Tears sting at your eyes and fall unchecked as the golden light of the ship’s transporter system wraps the two of you up like a sandstorm and whisks you away back home.  
  
You emerge on the transporter pad with Mr. Sulu still crouching beside you and he’s in no rush to move away as a few nurses rush forward and help get you up onto a stretcher.  You’re surprised Leonard hasn’t come to see to you himself but if what Mr. Sulu had said is true, you’re not the only one suffering from whatever it is that’s got you paralyzed and you’ve no doubt that the doctor is in the thick of things, trying to figure out what’s going on.  
  
The lights flash overhead as you pass under them, lying on a stretcher while the nurses rush you to medical.  It’s not a long trip by any means but at the same time it feels like ages before the familiar, clinical, sterile smell of the med bay greets you and you’re transferred onto a bio bed for assessment and treatment.  
  
You’re desperate to ask where Leonard is. You’re frightened and there would be no sight more welcome than him right now.  Moments later it’s like your silent prayers are answered when Leonard looms into view over you, his usual frown firmly in place and concern marring his features.  
  
“I’ve got you, Y/N,” he says softly, a reassuring preamble.  “We’re working on identifying whatever’s causing this, but in the meantime you’re going to need to bear with me.  It looks like whatever this poison is, it’s making it hard for some of those who’ve been hit to breathe.  I’m hoping it doesn’t come to it, but I don’t want to blindside you if it does.  I’m going to watch your oxygen levels really closely, and if they start to deteriorate, I’m going to have to put you on a machine to help you breathe temporarily.”  
  
Your heart rate increases from the fear of the potential outcome he’s just explained.  You want to shake your head, to fight the possibility, but you’re still unable to move.  Your limbs are completely limp and you’re helpless to do anything but lie there as you’re poked, prodded, and scanned.  Monitor leads are attached to your chest, a nasal cannula is placed across your face to help your oxygen intake, and a blanket is draped over your body to keep you warm.  Leonard stops long enough at the end of it all to look into your eyes once more, his expression resolved and reassuring.  
  
“You’re strong, Y/N,” he says firmly.  “Just hang in there.  We’ll get you through this.”  
  
You blink by way of acknowledgement and then close your eyes, concentrating on fighting the paralysis for all the good your efforts will do.  You’re not sure how much time goes by as you lie there, listening to the chaos around you and the chirping of your heart monitor, but eventually your attention is diverted away from your panic at the sound of a woman’s voice speaking hurriedly to the CMO.  
  
“It’s a double-chain molecule,” she explains. “It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before, but it acts like an enzyme and appears to either be blocking acetylcholine uptake, or preventing its release in the first place.  That’s what’s likely causing the paralysis.”  
  
Leonard considers her words, striding over to you.  Your eyes are still closed and you’re startled by his touch around your wrist as he gently lifts your arm and flexes it easily.  
  
“It’s flaccid paralysis, not tetany,” he muses. “It’s acting like botulinum toxin.”  
  
You open your eyes just in time to see the scientist at his side nod and show him something on her PADD.  
  
“Similarly to the botulinum toxin, it appears to be further precipitated by magnesium salts,” the scientist explains further.  
  
“It doesn’t seem to be affecting their cardiovascular systems yet, so there’s no need for those anyway,” Leonard murmurs. “Do you know if the heptavalent botulinum antitoxin would be an effective antidote?”  
  
The scientist shrugs.  
  
“Best guess?”  She says.  “Maybe. We’ll run some trials.  I leave it at your discretion as to whether or not to proceed with treatment before we’ve got results.”  
  
“How long will those take?”  He queries.  
  
“A few hours,” the scientist replies.  
  
Leonard looks around at all of the overhead monitors on beds with paralyzed crew on them and shakes his head.  
  
“Some of them don’t have hours,” he says grimly.  “Run your tests, I’m going to treat my crew.”  
  
The scientist nods and rushes off, undoubtedly back to her lab to do as the doctor has asked.  At the same time, he orders one of the nurses to replicate enough doses of the antitoxin for the whole of the affected crew before turning his attention back to you.  
  
“There’s some hope,” he says, gently and honestly.  “I don’t know for sure if it’ll work, and even if it does it could be weeks before you’re up and moving around again, but I’m going to try it.”  
  
You hope against hope that his plan works and lie in wait for the medication.  It’s delivered within minutes and you close your eyes as it’s injected, praying for even the slightest sign anywhere that it’s working. You feel no change in your condition, though, and you have to force yourself to be patient.  
  
At some point over the next few hours, even with Leonard constantly making his rounds and checking your muscle tone, you manage to fall asleep.  You’re not sure how long you stay that way, but eventually consciousness returns to you and you open your eyes, squinting at the brightness of med bay’s overhead lighting as it’s compounded by the white and chrome of the walls and floors.  
  
Leonard is at your side and in a surprise turn of events, he’s smiling.  You stare up at him, willing him wordlessly to talk to you, to let you know what’s going on.  
  
“The results are promising,” he begins to explain immediately.  “The HBAT seems to be working, we’ve stabilized the whole crew.  They’re working on an enzyme that’ll help to inactivate and clear the rest of the toxin from your bodies, which should speed up your recovery exponentially once it’s ready.  In the meantime, though, you’re already getting better.”  
  
You feel him touch your wrist again, lifting your arm and flexing it like he had earlier, but this time it feels different. You feel the muscles in your upper arm respond – just a tiny bit, but it’s something – and fight him as he moves your limb.  He carefully sets your arm back down and smiles at you again.  
  
“You’re regaining muscle tone,” he assures you. “I don’t think you’ll have proper control for a while, still, but it’s a really good sign.  It means you’re going to be okay.”  
  
You let out a long breath of relief and clear your throat.  You realize you’re able to move your facial muscles now, even if only a little bit, and you try to speak but inevitably fail.  
  
“Just relax, darlin’,” the doctor admonishes you as you attempt to talk.  “There’ll plenty of time later for you to say whatever’s on your mind.  Lord knows it’s nice to get a little bit of a break from your constant chatter…”  
  
You glare at him as he winks at you, clearly having spoken in jest, and you huff.  It’s all you can do to be difficult in your current state, and you’re sure he’s glad of that.  You know you can be a handful sometimes and while you’re still uncomfortable and scared, you trust him and you’re glad he has the opportunity to take care of you without a constant litany of protestations from you.  
  
As he takes a seat at your bedside now that everyone else is stable, you revel in the warmth of the hand that clasps yours. Taking a deep breath – something that seems to make the doctor happy – you force your muscles to move.  The effect is barely even worth mentioning, but you manage to twitch your fingers in his grasp.  The movement, however slight, is not lost on the doctor and he positively beams.  
  
“That’s great, darlin’,” he says warmly. “You’re doing a really good job. You’re going to be just fine.”  
  
While you’re still fighting to accept your current situation, you let his words reassure you.  With him by your side, you’re confident that you can get through anything, and you welcome his care and comforting.  You relax a fraction as his thumb strokes over the back of your hand and prepare yourself for a few days of boredom before you’re able to walk and talk again; even with your loving boyfriend and expert physician at your side, the hours leading up to your recovery are going to be long and you know you’re going to get stir crazy.  
  
At least you get to catch up on sleep. 


	18. R is for Rash

You hum to yourself as you stride through the Georgian wilderness, glancing around at the sunbeams cutting through the canopy overhead.  It looks like a picture out of a National Geographic e-zine and it’s perfect, peaceful. You’re beyond glad you and Leonard chose to spend your shore leave staying in his grandparents’ cabin in the woods.   
  
The only thing you can see is the sunshine through the trees.  The only things you can smell are the damp earth and the lush summer vegetation.  The only thing you can hear is birdsong in the trees.  The only things you can feel are the warmth of Leonard’s hand in yours and the crunch of fallen twigs beneath your hiking boots.  The only thing you can taste is the sweet-tartness of the wild strawberries you’re pausing to snack on every few steps.  It’s all in stark contrast to the things you’re used to experiencing on the Enterprise, and you find yourself so far removed from the Starship that it’s like you’re on another planet entirely.

As you hike further into the woods, exploring the forest around the cabin and just drinking in all the nature, Leonard stops, tugging on your hand.  You stop, too, looking up at him, and wonder what’s going on.  
  
“There,” he says, pointing through a stand of trees off to his right.  “There’s a meadow that way – it looks like the perfect spot for a picnic lunch.”  
  
You grin widely as you survey the area he’s indicated and you nod.  The two of you hike towards the meadow with thoughts of the amazing lunch you’d packed earlier for the two of you running through your head.  You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he’d mentioned the picnic, and now you can barely wait the length of time it takes you to cross through the woods to the meadow.  
  
As Leonard swings his backpack off of his shoulders, you retrieve the picnic blanket from your own bag, tossing it to him as you dive into his backpack to pull out the food.  
  
“Lay that down somewhere soft,” you instruct. “We can eat and just lie back and soak up some sun after lunch.”  
  
Leonard smiles at the thought and does as you’ve asked.  Meanwhile, you pull a number of containers out of his backpack, along with a bottle of your favorite white wine and some plastic tumblers.  Filling them both up, you turn around just in time to see Leonard returning to your side and you hold his out to him.  
  
“A toast,” you say with a smile as he takes the tumbler from you.  “To an uneventful shore leave.”  
  
Leonard quirks a brow.  
  
“Define uneventful,” he says with a grin. “Because I have some pretty  _eventful_  ideas for in the bedroom later on…”  
  
You playfully punch him in the shoulder and clink your tumbler against his before taking a sip of the wine.  It’s not too dry and beautifully floral and you sigh contentedly as you swallow it, chasing it with another sip.  
  
“I’m going to set this down by the blanket, darlin’,” Leonard says a moment later.  “Nature calls.”  
  
You roll your eyes at the euphemism he’s used but you nod, shooing him off as you continue to unpack lunch.  By the time he returns from behind a nearby tree, you’ve set out the chicken sandwiches, fruit salad, and blueberry muffins you had made that morning.  The two of you indulge (a little too much; neither of you wants to move after you’ve eaten) and then lie back like you’d said you would.  You lie there for an hour or so, watching the butterflies and birds go by overhead as your stomachs settle.  Eventually, however, the mosquito repellent wears off and the two of you are forced to pack it up and move on before you get eaten.  
  
A week later, you wake up in the morning to the sound of Leonard cursing and swearing in the bathroom right next to the master bedroom.  Jumping out of bed, you rush over there to find him standing in front of the mirror stark naked and looking frantic.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  You ask, your eyes darting from his head down to his toes, looking for signs of injury.  
  
He turns to face you and thrusts out his hands, exposing a litany of nasty, linear, striated wounds and blisters on a background of angry, reddened skin.    
  
“Poison ivy?!”  You say surprised.  “Did you touch any while we were hiking last weekend?  I didn’t even think to explain what it looks like…”  
  
His expression is angry and he’s clearly uncomfortable.  
  
“I know what it looks like,” he snaps.  “I didn’t touch any.  And it gets worse.”  
  
Your own expression is questioning and you force yourself to bite back a laugh as he gesticulates wildly around his midsection and your eyes stop at his groin.  His pelvic region and his entire shaft are just  _covered_  in the ivy rash. You’re about to ask what the hell he was doing out in the woods to get poison ivy on his penis when you recall the picnic.  
  
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, a little bubble of laughter finally escaping you.  “You must already have had the oils on your hands when you peed behind that tree.”  
  
“Well what did you think, I stuck it in a patch of ivy?”  He spits.  
  
“Come with me,” you instruct him, trying to soothe him with a softer tone.  
  
He’s grumbling as he follows you back to the bedroom and he stays standing beside the bed as you reach for your PADD. You quickly pull up some files – an old botany textbook of yours – and turn the screen to face him.  
  
“Did you see anything like this out there?” You ask.  
  
His eyebrows furrow as he thinks and eventually he nods.  
  
“I flattened some of it down when I laid down our blanket,” he replies.  
  
You giggle.  
  
“It’s poison oak,” you explain.  “It’s got the same oils as poison ivy does, but it’s much less common around here, so I’m not surprised that you didn’t know it to see it.  Sit down.”  
  
He’s glaring at you, angry with the world, as you move toward the corner of the room where he’s stashed a med kit. Opening it up, being extremely familiar with ivy and its treatments from all of your own experience with it in the field, you select a cartridge full of medication and load it into a hypo before returning to Leonard’s side.  He looks at you reproachfully as you hold the hypo up in front of him.  
  
“It’s prednisone,” you offer.  “It’ll help until we can pick up some salve for those blisters.”  
  
Leonard groans and turns his head to the side a little, exposing his neck for the hypo.  You inject the medication quickly and gently massage the side of his neck to help the drug to work faster.  Setting the hypo aside, you meet Leonard’s gaze as he turns back toward you, relief already beginning to show on his features.  
  
“Thanks, darlin’,” he says softly, reaching out to take your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.  
  
“Someone’s got to take care of you, doc,” you say with a smile.  “Now come on, a cold shower will help the stinging.”  
  
“I’m showering alone,” Leonard says quickly, decisively.    
  
You frown, but he continues before you can even ask why.  
  
“If I see you naked right now and get hard, these blisters are going to pop and I’m going to kill myself,” he says, his expression deadpan.  
  
You’re unable to reply as he gets up and leaves the room because you’re too busy laughing.  You’re still practically wheezing a few minutes later when you hear the water start to run next door and you’re so consumed by your mirth that you can’t even hear the doctor cursing your reaction to his plight.  
  
Oh, you’re going to hell, but you really can’t help yourself.  It’s far, far too funny.  Besides, you’re sure that once Leonard recovers, he’ll more than allow you to make it up to him in some way or another.


	19. S is for Stress

You throw your stylus down in frustration as you finish writing out the last of the study notes you’re making for your third year Advanced Robotics class.  You’ve been studying for your upcoming final exams for weeks and tomorrow morning is your first – and most dreaded – one.  Sighing, you run a hand over your tired eyes and scroll back to the beginning to read your notes again.  
  
A quarter of the way through your material, a knock on your door sounds and you instruct the computer to unlock it. Without hesitation, the door slides open and you can tell just by the footfalls behind you that it’s Leonard who has entered your quarters.

“Hey darlin’,” he says softly, striding over to where you’re seated at your desk and settling his hands on your shoulders. “How’s the studying going?”  
  
You groan in frustration by way of answer and he chuckles.  
  
“That well, huh?”  He says gently, and you can hear the smile in his voice.  “Do you want me to leave you alone?”  
  
You shake your head, turning your attention away from your notes to look up at him over your shoulder.    
  
“I just want to review these notes one last time,” you explain.  
  
“If you don’t know it now, you probably won’t in time for the exam,” Leonard says apologetically.  
  
“I do know it,” you assure him.  “It just never hurts to take one last look.”  
  
He nods and, as you turn back to look down at your PADD, begins to knead your shoulders gently.  You moan softly at how amazing it feels to have him working the tension out of the muscles there and it’s all you can do to focus on your reading as he massages the aches away.  
  
“You’re tense,” he comments.  “Are you nervous?”  
  
You nod a little; enough to answer him but not enough to disrupt his kneading.  
  
“I’ve been stressed out about finals for weeks,” you reply.  “I have really bad exam anxiety and I know that I know this stuff inside-out and backwards, but I still feel like I’m going to screw it all up.”  
  
“You won’t screw it up, sweetheart,” Leonard reassures you.  “But if you’re really worried about it and need a day or two more to prepare yourself, I can write you a deferral letter.  As your primary care physician I have the authority.”  
  
You smile softly, leaning back so you’re sitting straight up in the chair as his warm, deft hands continue to work out the knots in your shoulders and neck.  Part of you wants to take him up on his offer, but the other part of you just wants to get the exams over and done with so you can finally properly relax.  
  
“No, but thanks,” you murmur.  “I’d rather not have to wait another week or two to be done – that’s just another week or two for me to spend freaking out. I’ll be okay.”  
  
“Then give me your PADD and come join me on the couch,” Leonard offers.  “You can snuggle up with me and I can quiz you on this stuff.”  
  
You smile as you hold the PADD up over your shoulder for Leonard to take.  
  
“That sounds lovely,” you agree.  
  
You miss his touch as soon as his hands leave your shoulders and you stand up, stretching your aching, bunched muscles before following him over to the sofa.  You give him a moment to get comfortable and then you curl up against his side, drawing your knees in to your chest as he wraps an arm around you. He holds the PADD in his free hand, far enough away that you can’t read what’s on it, and begins to flip through the information you have gathered there.   
  
As he begins to ask you questions, you respond automatically, reassuring yourself that you know the material cold. You close your eyes after a little while, inhaling deeply and feeling warmed by the scent of his cologne; it’s something dark and spicy, and it’s comforting in its familiarity.  
  
The two of you spend an hour reviewing before you’ve gone through the remainder of your material and you let out a long exhalation as Leonard powers down your PADD and sets it aside.  He leans in to press a kiss to your temple and you shift so your head is resting on his pec, his heartbeat echoing in your ear.  
  
“Thanks, Lee,” you murmur.  “Now all I need is a good night’s sleep and maybe I won’t fail this exam.”  
  
His hand absentmindedly strokes your hair as he looks down at you, his gaze lingering on the dark circles beneath your eyes and the frown of your mouth.  He glances at the chron and realizes it’s getting late – not really, but late enough that you should be getting to bed in time for an 0800 exam the following day.  
  
“Why don’t you wash up and get changed?” He suggests.  “I’m going to run and get something to help you sleep.”  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“I can’t afford to be drowsy in the morning,” you rebut.  
  
“You won’t be,” Leonard promises.  “Have I ever lied to you?  Just trust me.  I’ll calibrate the dosage so you’ll be right as rain by 0700 hours so you’ve got plenty of time to shower and eat a good breakfast before your test.”  
  
You consider his words for a moment and finally nod in agreement.  You sit up, moving away so Leonard can stand, and you take the hand he offers you a moment later so you, too, can get to your feet.  You smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your lips and you watch him leave with a promise that he’ll be right back.  
  
Moving to your private bathroom, you quickly brush your teeth and comb your hair.  You fill up the glass that resides on your counter with water and savor it, setting the empty back down again before stepping back into your bedroom. You groan as all of the muscles in your neck and shoulders ache from all of the tension you’re holding there while you pull off your clothes.  Stretching your arms over your head, you whine softly at the pain that comes before the relief.  
  
You open the dresser next to your closet and pull out your favorite, most comfortable pair of pajamas.  Slipping into the familiar, nearly threadbare shorts and tank top, you move to your bed and turn down the covers.  Kicking off your slippers, you climb into bed and lie back against your pillow, groaning at how good it feels to be relaxing even a little bit.  
  
You’re still tense a few minutes later when Leonard returns, slipping into your quarters quietly with his kit in hand. The embrace of the pillowtop beneath you and the comforter on top are inviting and welcome, but you can’t get comfortable.  In the silence of Leonard’s absence, all sorts of awful scenarios had played themselves out in your head and now you’re jittery.  It doesn’t’ escape Leonard’s notice, either, as he immediately reaches out for you when he takes a seat on the edge of your bed, stroking your cheek with his thumb.  
  
“Take a few deep breaths for me, darlin’,” he instructs you as he meets your gaze, his expression reassuring.  
  
You’re amazed at how much better you feel for seeing him – though the stress is still wreaking havoc on your body, his stalwart reassurances, stoicism, and unwavering cool countenance make you trust him when he says everything will be okay, and make you listen as he tells you to breathe.  
  
You watch him as he reaches into his bag and produces a tricorder, and you can’t help rolling your eyes at him.  Always the consummate professional.  Your expression isn’t lost on him and he smiles softly as he scans you.  
  
“Just making sure you’re hydrated enough,” he explains.  “It’s important for how your body handles the drug I’m going to give you.  The good news is, everything looks fine.”  
  
He puts the tricorder away and loads a vial into a hypospray, holding it out toward you, giving you another chance to refuse if you want to.  You don’t, however, and he treats your silence as permission.  One of his hands is gentle against the angle of your jaw as he encourages you to tip your head back and relax, and the other is swift and competent as he presses the hypospray to your skin and injects the medication before you can really even sense the stinging.    
  
As he puts the hypo away, you rub at the spot he’s just injected, making the small bit of pain there dissipate in moments. His attention is back on you a second later and he reaches out, taking your hand and giving it a squeeze.  
  
“You’re going to ace that exam tomorrow,” he says with confidence.  “And all of the others.  You’ll leave everyone else in the dust.”  
  
You can’t help but chuckle at his words and you sigh a moment later as you feel a wave of warmth and sedation wash over you. You lick your lips and feel your eyes fluttering closed.  You cling to Leonard’s hand, a bit startled by the feeling, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he soothes you.  
  
“It’s alright darlin’, I’ve got you,” he says softly.  “You’re doing great.  Let yourself sleep.  I’ll be right here.”  
  
You do as he says and he is; he’s still by your side when you wake up in the morning, though now he’s pressed up against you, sleeping with his chest to your back.  He stirs as you turn off your alarm and you sit up with a yawn, shaking off the waking warmth of a fading sleep.  You quickly realize that he’d been right: you slept amazingly well and you don’t feel the least bit drowsy.  Smiling, you glance at him over your shoulder, doing your best to quell the fresh wave of anxiety that breaks over you as you think of the exam you’ve got in an hour.  
  
“You’re the best,” you say brightly.  “I slept like a baby.”  
  
He grins smugly and you can’t help rolling your eyes.  
  
“I’m going to go get changed for the day,” he calls to your retreating back as you head in to the washroom.  “I’ll meet you in the mess hall.”  
  
You shower quickly and get changed, forcing yourself not to power up your PADD for one last quick glance over your notes. You know you know your stuff, and you have to be satisfied with that or else you’ll miss breakfast.  
  
Heading out of your quarters, you make it to the mess hall and glance around, noticing Leonard waving at you from a nearby table.  You head over and sit down, looking at the tray in front of your spot.  It’s got a bowl of oatmeal, a banana, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and a container of your favorite yogurt.  He wasn’t joking last night when he’d said you needed to eat a good breakfast, and it looked like he was ready to sit and make sure you did just that.  
  
“How’re you feeling, Y/N?”  He asks as you pick up the coffee and take your first sip, savoring it.  
  
“Okay, I guess,” you reply honestly.  “I’m still really freaked out, but I’ve got to get it over with, right?”  
  
He nods and reaches out to take your free hand as you down the rest of the coffee.  You watch him over the lip of the cup, wondering what he’s up to as he pulls a small spray bottle out of his pocket and uncaps it.  He sprays a little spritz of the liquid inside on your wrist and you’re both content and confused as you inhale and smell his familiar cologne.  
  
“Smell is the strongest sense tied to memory,” he says by way of explanation.  “I figured since you could smell my cologne while I was helping you study last night, maybe this would help you recall some things during your exam this morning.”  
  
You’re touched by his sentiment and you beam at him, setting your cup down.  
  
“Thank you,” you say with a grin.  “It couldn’t hurt, right?”  
  
He returns the smile and the two of you finish your breakfast in silence.  You glance at the chron on the wall to check the time as you finish and you stand up swiftly.  
  
“I have to be across campus in ten minutes!” You yelp.  “Can you take care of this for me, please?!”  
  
You gesture to your tray and Leonard nods, reaching out to take your hand.  He gives it a quick squeeze and lets you go.  You’re already rushing away as you wave to him, heading for the exit.  
  
“Good luck, Y/N!”  He calls to you.  “You’ll do great!”  
  
You’re smiling as you run across the courtyard and head for the robotics building.  As you jog, the heat of your skin causes the scent of the cologne he sprayed on your wrist to intensify and fill the air around you.  You breathe it in deeply and feel yourself relax a little bit, especially when you consider that in a few short hours, after your exam, you’ll be enveloped in that smell again as Leonard hugs you in celebration.  
  
Walking into the room, you find your seat and pick up your stylus.  As the clock strikes 0800 hours, you settle in and let it fly across the screen.  
  
Stress or no stress, you’ve got this.


	20. T is for Tachycardia

You’ve been putting off your worry over some symptoms you’ve been having for weeks.  You’ve been feeling a bit dizzy and fatigued, and on occasion you’ve felt your heart racing.  You’d nearly blacked out once or twice, too, but you’re continuing to brush it off as a result of working long hours and probably not eating enough.    
  
Now, however, you’re working on checking all of the weapons in the secure weapons storage and your heart is beginning its now-familiar racing all over again.  You try to ignore it as you take apart a long-range phaser rifle, but the longer you try to push it away, the more insistent it becomes.  You replace the rifle you’re holding in the gun safe before you and lock it up, leaning heavily against a nearby wall.

“What the hell,” you murmur to yourself.  
  
You stay there for several minutes, expecting to get better like you have been doing every time you’ve had an episode over the last several weeks, but you’re only continuing to get worse.  You’re feeling weaker and dizzier by the second, and you reach up to feel your own pulse at the neck only to find it racing almost too quickly to count.  
  
Pushing shakily away from the wall, you stand and realize that you can’t ignore your symptoms any longer.  It’s time to go to med bay; you really can’t avoid a visit with the doctor at this point.  
  
Walking out of the security offices, you smooth your red dress down and make your way toward the turbo lift.  You’re growing increasingly anxious as you walk and the more nervous you get, the dizzier you get.  It feels like your heart’s about to burst out of your chest and your vision begins to tunnel.  
  
You rush toward the turbo lift, trembling as you take it up to the right floor, and when you step off once again medical is finally in sight.  A passing crew member gives you a concerned look as you practically stumble down the hallway and you whip your head around as you step over the threshold into med bay, looking for the CMO.  
  
Noticing him several feet away near one of the exam stations, you make your way toward him.  You can almost feel the blood draining from your face as you do so, and you only just manage to get his attention before things get really bad.  
  
“Len, something’s wrong,” you say weakly. “I feel like I’m going t-“  
  
You never get to finish your words as darkness claims you and you hit the floor in a dead faint.  
  
When you wake up again, you’re not sure what’s happening, or even really where you are.  You can hear people murmuring around you, and there are some soft but distinctly mechanical noises in the background.  When you open your eyes a second later and you’re nearly blinded by the lighting all around you and you hiss in a breath.  
  
“Welcome back, darlin’,” Leonard says softly.  
  
You blink a few times, allowing your eyes to adjust to the light, and you look at him with an expression of confusion. The last thing you remember is feeling dizzy and like your heart was racing.  
  
“What happened?”  You ask thickly, your mouth dry.  
  
You watch as Leonard runs his tricorder over your body.  
  
“You passed out,” he replies.  “Your heart was racing a mile a minute.  I had to give you something to slow it down. How are you feeling now?”  
  
You wiggle your toes and shift around a little bit.  You feel a little dizzy and your chest feels somewhat heavy, but you shrug.  
  
“Okay I think,” you answer.  “What’s wrong with me?”  
  
Leonard considers your question, but counters with queries of his own instead.  
  
“How were you feeling before you passed out?” He asks.  “Is this the first time it’s happened?”  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“It’s the first time I’ve blacked out,” you reply.  “But I’ve been feeling dizzy on and off for weeks.  I just thought I was tired.”  
  
The doctor’s brow furrows in concern.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me, sweetheart?”  He questions softly.  “I could have done a quick exam and treated you before it got to this.”  
  
“Treated me?”  You say, confused.  “For what?”  
  
Leonard moves even closer to you and reaches out to take your hand, giving it a squeeze.  You’re immediately on your guard as all manner of horrible diagnoses run through your head.  You swallow thickly, your gaze never wavering from his as he starts to speak.  
  
“When I first examined you after you came in, your heart rate was over a hundred and eighty beats per minute and your ECG was abnormal,” he explains.  “After I got your heart rate under control I ran some scans and they showed an abnormal circuit in your heart.”  
  
Your expression must portray your confusion and concern because Leonard squeezes your hand before going on.  
  
“It’s a condition called Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome,” he finishes.  
  
“How did I get it?”  You ask.  “What do we do?  Is it… is it bad?”  
  
You’re relieved as the doctor shakes his head, his expression softening a little.  
  
“You were born with it,” he replies.  
  
You’re even more confused now.  
  
“How wasn’t it caught on any of my physicals?” You query.  
  
“You don’t have the typical presentation,” he answers.  “Usually, people with this condition have an abnormal ECG finding called a delta wave at all times, but sometimes, like in your case, they don’t.  You’ve never had any findings that necessitated more thorough scanning, so it wasn’t caught.”  
  
He falls silent, allowing you a few moments to let his words sink in.  You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment as your head spins from the information overload. Once you’ve digested some of it, you open your eyes once more and look up at Leonard.  You’re afraid of his answer to your next question, but you have to ask.  
  
“Does this mean I’m grounded?”  You ask, your breathing coming a little quicker.  
  
You don’t know what you’ll do if this newly diagnosed condition means you’re not fit for duty aboard the ship.  If you’re stuck working back on Earth or on a starbase, you don’t know how you’re going to survive.  
  
“No,” Leonard replies reassuringly with a shake of his head.  “Not at all, sweetheart.  It just means you need to see a specialist.  There’s a quick, easy, minimally invasive procedure that can fix this for good, but we don’t have the capability to do it on board, and I wouldn’t trust myself to do it anyway.  I’ve got a friend in cardiology back on Earth and I’ll set you up an appointment with her next time we dock.  She’s a fantastic doctor, she’ll fix you up.”  
  
You take a slow, deep breath, processing the information.  You haven’t seen a doctor besides Leonard in a few years and the thought of having to see someone new scares you.  
  
“Will you be there?”  You ask quietly.  
  
“Of course, sugar,” he replies, leaning in to kiss your forehead.  
  
Feeling a little better, you nod.  
  
“What do we do in the meantime?  Am I fit for duty?”  You query further.  
  
“I’m going to excuse you from your duties for a week,” he informs you.  “I’m going to start you on some medication to keep your heart rate under control in the meantime, which should help prevent any more fainting spells.  It’ll take a few days for the medication to start working, so I’m going to monitor you on it in the meantime.  You’ll need to come by once a day for a quick scan, and I’ll keep an eye on your heart rate around the clock with a sensor you can wear around your wrist.”  
  
That sounds reasonable and you smile as the relief of being able to keep working washes over you.  Leonard seems to sense your relaxation as he chooses that moment to step away to glance at the readouts on the screen at the foot of the bio bed.  As he does so, you prop yourself up on your elbows, letting the dizziness pass before sitting up all the way.  Leonard glances up at you and smiles softly.  
  
“If you’re feeling better, I think it’s alright to take you back to your quarters,” he says warmly.  
  
You nod enthusiastically as soon as the words leave his lips and he chuckles as he comes to stand at your side.  He reaches into the neckline of your tunic, gently pulling sticky, wireless electrodes away from your skin, and then disconnects the various other monitoring devices you’re attached to.  
  
“You shouldn’t have any complications,” he assures you as he pulls out your IV and places a small bandage over the site where the needle had entered your skin.  
  
You’re captivated by his beautiful, warm, hazel eyes as he glances up at you from where he’s finished untethering you from all of the machines you’d been tied to in some way and you keep looking into them as he reaches up and takes your face in his hands.  
  
“Just please promise me that you’ll communicate with me,” Leonard says softly, leaning in to punctuate his words with a gentle kiss.  “You can’t hide what’s going on in your body while I’m scanning you, but I can’t follow you around all day, as much as I would like to sometimes.  I’m only a comm away if you’re not feeling well, or if you’re worried about anything, no matter how small.”  
  
You smile, your gaze trailing down over the bridge of his nose, to his lips, down to the neckline of his uniform.  You hate worrying him, but you also hate how guilty you feel whenever you conceal symptoms from him, and after the kind of trouble that had just led to, you’re not apt to do so again anytime soon. Looking up, you nod, your heart skipping as a smile breaks out over his features.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers.  “I’ll hold you to that.”  
  
He pulls away a moment later and you watch as he moves away from the bed, stepping over to a nearby counter top and picking up a couple of items there.  You glance at what’s in his hands as he approaches you again and you reach out to take the pill bottle from his left hand as he holds it out to you.  
  
“You’re going to take one of those in the morning and one before bed every day until you see the cardiologist,” he explains.  “After the procedure you won’t need them anymore, but for now they’ll keep you stabilized.”  
  
You nod and you turn the bottle over in your hand, reading the label, the word  _antiarrhythmic_  jumping out at you from the information it contains.  Looking up once more, you hold out your right hand as Leonard holds his palm out for yours. You watch him as he applies a small, lightweight wristband to your arm and locks it in place before activating it.  
  
“And this,” he continues.  “Is going to let me keep an eye on your heart rate.  No matter where I am on the ship, this will transmit to my PADD and it’ll alert me if your heart rate goes over a hundred beats per minute.”  
  
You’re beginning to feel like a bobblehead as you nod yet again and you hold Leonard’s gaze, expecting something more. Instead, however, you’re rewarded with another hand held out to you, and this time it’s to help you balance as you slide off of the bio bed and land on your feet.  His hold doesn’t loosen as he leads you away from the bed and toward the med bay doors.  
  
“Let’s take you home,” Leonard murmurs as the two of you head for the turbo lift.  
  
You laugh softly.  
  
“I’m already home,” you reply.  “Home is where the heart is, and my heart’s in your hands, doc.”  
  
Leonard echoes the sound with a laugh of his own and he squeezes your hand.  
  
“I’ll be sure to keep it safe, darlin’,” he promises.  
  
And you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he’ll do just that.


	21. U is for UTI

You’re lying in your bed, reading a book when your dad comes home from work.  You’ve been feeling pretty awful all day, but you didn’t want your mom to worry so you didn’t say anything to her.  When your tummy had started hurting earlier on, you had told her you were going to go and play in your room and you’d curled up in bed.  Now you have your knees pulled up to your chest and a book propped open on them, but you can’t concentrate on your reading.  
  
You sink down further into your bed as you hear your dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs, hoping that he’ll just poke his head into your room to say hi rather than coming to give you a kiss on the head like he often does.  You don’t want him to worry, either, and you don’t really want a check-up.  You love your dad and he’s great, but you’re at the age where it’s getting awkward for him to examine you; you just want your privacy like any self-respecting eight-year old.

You can hear him coming closer as the floor outside your bedroom door creaks and you panic a bit, throwing your book onto your bedside table and shuffling down in bed, pulling the covers up over your head.  Your bedroom door opens with a squeak and you can hear your dad moving closer.  You cower down even lower, hoping that at most he’ll playfully tickle you through the blanket and ask you how your day was, and you pout when you feel the edge of your bed sink down as he takes a seat on it.  
  
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says warmly and you can hear the smile in his voice.  “I missed you today.”  
  
“I missed you, too, daddy,” you reply, holding onto the edges of your blanket so he can’t dislodge it.  
  
“Come out and give your old man a hug,” your dad encourages, but you shake your head, which you quickly realize was the wrong move.  
  
“C’mon, Y/N,” he pleads, reaching out to tickle you through the blanket.  
  
You shriek as his hands find all sorts of ticklish spots and you roll over.  You’re moving so quickly that you nearly launch yourself right off of the bed on the other side but your dad’s hands catch you.  He rights you back on the bed and you wince as your tummy hurts worse from moving around.  The grimace doesn’t escape his notice.  
  
“Are you alright, sweetheart?”  He asks, his tone as gentle as his hands.  
  
Tears well up in your eyes as you fight between telling him you’re hurting and lying to him.  He and mom have always taught you that lying is wrong, but you’re tired and don’t feel well and you don’t want his attention – at least not as a doctor.  You want your dad, his hugs and kisses.  You’re about to fling yourself at his side in hopes that he’ll pull you in for a hug and hold you close when he puts a hand on your forehead.  
  
“You’re warm, angel,” he says lightly; it’s the same way he always talks to you when he’s being Dr. Dad because he knows you don’t like it and he’s trying not to spook you.  “I think you might have a fever.  Do you hurt anywhere?”  
  
You nod slowly, just once, and ball your fists up in the blanket that you’re tangled in in the aftermath of nearly falling off of the bed and having to be rescued.  
  
“Can you show me where it hurts?”  He questions.  
  
You nod, casting your gaze down away from his as you shrink back against your pillows, wordlessly pointing to your belly. He frowns a little and nods, reaching up to gently ruffle your hair and get your attention.  
  
“Can I take a look, darlin’?”  He asks, his expression reassuring but insistent.  
  
You’re surprised when he asks for your permission – most adults just brush you off and treat you like the kid that you are, touching you without your permission.  Even your dad has done it before when he’s examined you, and so you’re happy that for once you’re allowed to make up your own mind.  The feeling that he trusts you to make your own decision bolsters you and you nod.  
  
You know the drill; you’ve had tummy aches before.  Putting your hands by your sides, you watch as he disentangles the blanket from around you, folding it down before pushing the hem of your shirt up a tiny bit to expose your tummy.  You fiddle with the sheet under you anxiously, looking away from him as he talks to you.  
  
“I’m just going to feel your tummy,” he explains.  “Tell me if it hurts.”  
  
You keep still as his comparatively large hand rests gently on your belly and your gaze darts around the mural on your wall, taking in details that you only ever appreciate when you’re stuck submitting to one of your dad’s checkups.  You’re fine at first, but as he presses low down on your belly you whine softly, feeling him stop immediately and gently stroke your tummy to soothe you.  
  
“You did great, sweetheart,” your dad assures you.  “How long has your tummy been sore?”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“Since this morning,” you mumble.  
  
He retracts his hand and pulls your shirt back down, tucking your blanket up around you and gently stroking your hair. Your resolve wavers a little at his touch and you continue to avoid meeting his gaze, feeling a bit shy, but you move closer to him so you can curl up against his side.  As you do, he wraps an arm around you and holds you close, making you feel safe and protected.  
  
“Mom said you ate lunch with her earlier,” he murmurs.  “Did you feel sick after?”  
  
You shake your head, staring at the swirling galaxy print on your blanket, picking at a loose thread as you snuggle in closer to your dad.  
  
“Does it hurt when you pee?”  He continues.  
  
You’re ready to die of embarrassment at this point and you shrink into yourself, trying to hide in plain sight.  
  
“Daaaaaaad,” you groan.  
  
“It’s important, Y/N,” he impresses.  “I need to know so I can make you feel better, pumpkin.”  
  
“Yeah,” you squeak so quietly you’re not sure he even heard you.  
  
“Okay,” he acknowledges.  “That’s good, sweetheart, thank you for telling me.”  
  
You smile a little at the fact that he’s proud of you for speaking up.  You finally dare to glance up at him as he shifts away from you a little, his hand landing on your shoulder and squeezing it gently.  
  
“I’m going to go get you some medicine to make it stop hurting,” he expresses.  “And I’m going to bring you some water.  You’ll need to drink lots so you can feel better faster.  Do you think you can do that for me?”  
  
You nod as you shift away so he can stand up, watching him as he smiles down at you and quickly leaves the room.  As he disappears, you quickly jump out of bed and change into your favorite pajamas: the one good thing about being sick is that your dad brings you everything you could ever want while you rest and you get to hang out in your PJs all day.  Taking full advantage of the perks since you have to endure the cons, too (blah, medicine), you crawl back into bed and sit cross-legged under your blanket, waiting for your dad to come back.  
  
He’s entering your room again a few minutes later with a tray.  You crane your neck higher to see what’s on it as he moves toward your bed and you pout when you see the thermometer and the medicine.  The jello makes you happy, though, and you shrug: you win some, you lose some.  
  
You make room for your dad to sit down again and you beat him to the punch, opening your mouth to let him slip the thermometer under your tongue without him even having to ask you.  He beams at you as you close your mouth around the thermometer and he pats your head.  
  
“That’s great, sweetheart,” he says proudly. “Just keep that there for a minute and don’t bite down.”  
  
You nod, watching him as he picks up a foil packet that’s lying on the tray and tears it open.  He empties its contents into the smaller of two glasses of water on the table and stirs it in.  It’s clear and still looks like water, but you know it’s going to taste gross: medicine  _always_  does.  
  
The thermometer beeps a second later and he takes it back from you, glancing at the display.  He sets it aside without comment and picks up the glass of medicine, holding it out to you.  You take it with a sour look on your face as he laughs.  
  
“Drink up, darlin’,” he instructs warmly. “It’ll bring down your fever and make you feel a whole lot better.”  
  
You stare at the glass warily as you bring it to your lips and close your eyes, wrinkling your nose as you tip the glass up. You drink it all as quickly as you can and pull the glass away from your lips, shaking your head and making a face at the taste of the medication.  
  
“Yuck!”  You complain.  “That was gross!”  
  
Your dad smiles warmly as he takes the glass from you and sets it aside again, offering you the glass of water instead.   
  
“That’s all the medicine you have to take,” he promises.  “Just the one dose.  Now all you have to do is rest and drink lots of water.  We can keep an eye on your fever, but I think you’re going to be just fine by tomorrow.”  
  
You smile a bit, too, and take a sip of the plain water, washing the taste of the medicine away.  Putting the glass back on your bedside table, you look up at your dad.  
  
“Thanks daddy,” you say sheepishly.  
  
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Now, what do you say to a nap before dinner?”  
  
You shake your head, your hair falling across your eyes.  Your dad reaches out and brushes it back behind your ears.  
  
“Read me a story,” you insist.  “Please?”  
  
“You know I can never say no to you,” he laughs.  “Pick something.”  
  
He stands once more, walking over to your bookshelf.  You’ve got countless books uploaded to his PADD, but he knows you prefer the real thing when the two of you have story time together.  You bite your lip as you think and you grin when you have an idea. It’s a book for little kids (and you’re grown up so you’re kind of too old for it), but it’s one of your favorites and it’s a short one so maybe after you’re done, you can convince your dad to read you a second one.  
  
“The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor,” you decide.  
  
Your dad grins as he pulls it off of the shelf, its cover worn and soft with age.  He brings it over and sits down again, pulling his legs up so he’s leaning against the headboard, sitting next to you with his legs stretched out.  As he flips the book open, you move so you’re seated at his side and can see the pictures.    
  
He puts an arm around you to keep you close as he begins to read, and you giggle as he does different voices for all of the characters.  As the doctor in the book checks brother and sister bear’s ears, he gently tickles one of yours, eliciting a shriek of delight from you.  As the book winds on, he continues to playfully poke and prod at you, and the laughter, combined with the medicine he’d given you earlier, is making you feel more like yourself.  
  
Before long, the book is over and you find yourself yawning widely.  Your dad closes the cover and sets it aside, looking down at where you’re leaning in close to him.  
  
“Do you want to read another one?”  He asks.  
  
You shake your head.  
  
“I think I want a nap,” you reply.  “Can you tuck me in, daddy?”  
  
“Of course, darlin’,” he agrees gladly.  
  
He moves off of the bed, giving you some space to shift around.  
  
“Lie down,” he directs softly.  
  
Once you’re settled with your head centered on your pillow, your dad leans in over you and tucks your blanket securely in around you, enveloping you into a little cocoon of warmth.  You smile and close your eyes sleepily as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, stroking your hair gently as you start to drift off. You don’t see it, but his expression is one of unconditional love and affection as you yawn yet again.  
  
“When I grow up, I wan’ be a doctor just like you daddy,” you mumble thickly, sleep claiming you moments later.  
  
As he leaves you to sleep, Bones’ heart is filled with joy and pride; he couldn’t have asked for a better daughter.


	22. V is for Visual Impairment

Your head is still reeling as you swing your legs over the edge of the bio bed you’ve been lying on for the better part of the afternoon and your ears are still ringing.  You’d been involved in an explosion on an away mission, and while you’d been armored well enough that you’d avoided shrapnel injuries, you’d been close enough to the epicenter of the blast that you’d been knocked on your face by the shockwave that followed the detonation.  
  
As soon as you’d been beamed back up onto the ship, you’d been rushed to medical with the rest of the team and thoroughly checked over.  After looking over your scans and monitoring your condition for a while, Dr. McCoy had finally pronounced you fit to leave medical, and you’d jumped at the chance.

Now, however, you’re shaky as you slip off of the bed and stand, and you glance up at the CMO as he steps in to put a steadying hand on your shoulder.  
  
“Alright there, Ensign?”  He asks.  
  
“Yes sir,” you reply.  “Thank you.”  
  
He nods, ensuring that you’re stable before dropping his hand away once more and giving you some space.  
  
“You might feel a little bit dizzy for a few days after that kind of a shock so I’ve put you on light duties until you’re feeling more like yourself,” he explains.  “All of your scans look fine and I don’t anticipate any complications, but if you’re concerned about anything at all, I want you to come right back in here to see me or anyone else on duty, alright?”  
  
“I will, sir,” you assure him.  “Thanks again.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he says with a brief smile. “And you can stop with the sir nonsense – it makes me feel old.”  
  
You laugh and nod, acknowledging his wishes, filing away his request for the next time you see him.  He steps aside, giving you room to get to the door and you give him a friendly wave before slowly making your way out of the exam room. The walk through the med bay, down the hall, and to your quarters isn’t a long one, but you’re exhausted enough that it’s daunting.  
  
By the time you reach your quarters you’re ready to hit the hay and so you make quick work of stripping off your uniform, washing up, and changing into a pair of pajamas.  Once you’re all set, you crawl into bed, take a long, deep breath, and put the day’s events out of your mind as sleep carries you off into the night.  
  
You stir many hours later, groaning as you stretch your aching muscles and yawning.  You slowly blink your eyes open and you furrow your eyebrows as you realize that something’s not right.  Blinking again once, twice, a third time, you realize that the problem isn’t resolving itself; the vision in your right eye is extremely fuzzy and dim, like there’s a shadow being thrown over part of your visual field.  Reaching up, you rub your eye and blink a few more times, hoping that the defect will clear.  When it still doesn’t, you begin to panic.  
  
Jumping up and out of bed, you don’t even bother getting dressed as you head for the door.  Slipping on a pair of flip-flops, you dash out of your quarters and head for med bay.  The trip isn’t a very long one but it’s extremely clumsy as you’ve lost a lot of depth perception with the occlusion of half of your visual field.  
  
Tears of panic are streaming down your face as you finally reach med bay.  Losing your vision has always been one of your biggest fears as problems with visual acuity run in your family, and now that something is happening to you, all of your fears are crashing over you like breaking waves, dragging you further down into the abyss of terror.  
  
A nearby nurse spots you first and she’s out of her chair in a flash, rushing toward you and gently taking your shaking shoulders in her hands.  You remember her from yesterday even though it’s hard to make out her features through the haze and you reach up, clinging onto her arms as you try to breathe through your panic.  You hate med bay as it is; being there for a problem as serious as the one you’re afraid you’re facing now is literally your worst nightmare.  
  
“Ensign Y/L/N,” the nurse says gently, already leading toward a bio bed.  “What’s going on?”  
  
“My eyes,” you reply, sobs choking you and threatening to burst out of you at any moment.  “Something’s wrong with my vision.”  
  
The nurse nods in understanding as she helps you up onto a bed, giving your shoulder a squeeze as she activates it in preparation for the doctor.  
  
“Just hang in there a moment,” she soothes. “I’ll go and get Dr. McCoy.  Try to take some deep breaths.”  
  
Her words fall on deaf ears; you’d stopped listening after she’d said your attending physician’s name.  Instead, you continue to hyperventilate, crossing your arms over your chest and curling in on yourself as you feel the world start to crumble in around you.  You’re not sure how long you sit there like that, afraid and anticipating the worst, but eventually your attention is drawn to the sound of hurried footsteps approaching.   
  
You look up just in time to see the CMO breeze into the room, followed by your good friend and his best nurse, Christine Chapel.  She moves in beside the doctor as he comes to stand before you and hovers on the periphery, waiting for orders while he reaches out to put a reassuring hand on your shoulder.  
  
“Try to calm down for me, Ensign,” the doctor insists, his tone gentle but authoritative.  “Breathe in and out and tell me what the problem is.”  
  
As you attempt, however shakily, to comply with his instructions, he exchanges a few words with Christine and she rushes off to fetch him the equipment he’s requested.  His hand remains on your shoulder as he glances at the bio bed’s readout, assessing all of your vital signs.  He stays quiet, waiting for you to catch your breath, and he listens closely when you finally find the wherewithal to speak.  
  
“M-my right eye,” you wheeze in between sharp, shallow breaths.  “My vision’s really blurry, I can barely even make out shapes.  It’s kind of dark.  Oh, God, am I going blind?!”  
  
The doctor’s grip on your shoulder tightens even more and he puts his face right in front of yours so you can easily see and read his expression.  
  
“No,” he replies firmly.  “I promise you, you’re not going blind.”  
  
“B-but my dad,” you explain weakly.  “And my aunt.”  
  
“Both have macular degeneration,” the doctor supplies.  “I know, darlin’; I’ve read your file.  I promise you that’s not what this is.”  
  
“What is it, then?”  You ask, your tone barely above a whisper like you don’t really want to know, and like if you ask quietly enough you can avoid facing whatever horrible reality you’re afraid is waiting for you on the other side of his next statement.  
  
“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits.  “But I have a good idea.  Still, I don’t want to say anything until I’ve confirmed it. I’m going to have Nurse Chapel put some drops in your eyes to dilate your pupils so I can get a good look at the back of your eyes.  While those drops do their thing, I’m going to give you a little something to help calm you down – nothing too strong, just enough to take the edge off.  I don’t want you driving your blood pressure up while you’re still recovering from that blast yesterday.”  
  
“Is that what caused this?”  You query.  
  
The doctor nods as he turns away from you briefly to accept the tricorder and the hypo Christine has brought him.  She also sets a number of other tools down on the bed beside you before holding out a dropper bottle.  Dr. McCoy steps aside and begins to assemble a hypo as the nurse takes his place and encourages you to tip your head back.  
  
“If it’s what I think it is, then the force of the blast or your impact with the ground probably contributed to the problem,” he explains.  “Trauma to the head can cause all sorts of eye injuries.”  
  
Christine gets the drops in both of your eyes easily – two different kinds in each one – and moves off again.  She stays nearby, reaching out to gently rub your back as the doctor rejoins you, holding the hypospray in his hand.  
  
“Just a small pinch here, Y/N,” he says softly.  
  
You nod and close your eyes, wincing as they sting from the medication.  You feel one of his hands gently rest on your collarbone, bracing you as his other hand presses the hypo to the opposite side of your neck and discharges it with practiced ease.  You start a little at the sound it makes and the bite of it but Dr. McCoy’s hand is there immediately, massaging the injection site and soothing you.  
  
“You should feel better any second,” he explains.  
  
Somehow, miraculously, you do.  You’re still thinking clearly and worrying about what your symptoms could mean, but the anxiety accompanying your thoughts has been removed, to a large extent, and so you disconnect from those worries even more, focusing instead on the doctor before you.  
  
“That’s it,” he encourages you quietly. “Now, open your eyes for me so I can take a look at you.  The light’s going to be really bright, but it’ll be over quick.”  
  
You nod mutely and watch him reach for a tricorder.  He waves it around your face, watching the screen intently.  Once he’s done with the first one, he picks up another scanner, repeating the process.  You have no idea what kind of information he’s gleaning from the instruments, but whatever it is he seems not entirely displeased, and you hope that’s a good sign.  
  
Putting away the second scanner, he picks up an opthalmoscope, holding it up in front of you as he levels his gaze with yours.  
  
“Keep your eyes open, try your best not to blink,” he instructs.  “This’ll only take a minute.”  
  
You follow his orders, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead as he leans in close to you, shining a light in your eyes one at a time, examining you carefully.  The light very quickly becomes uncomfortable almost to the point of making you nauseated but you tolerate it; if it means he’ll be able to diagnose you and treat whatever is affecting your vision, you’ll hang in there indefinitely.  
  
You comply further as he asks you to look up, down, and to either side so he can see as much of the back of your eyes, particularly the affected one, as possible.  Eventually he finishes and removes the awful, intense light from your field of view, allowing you to relax.  You blink away some tears, shutting your eyes tightly to hasten the disappearance of the persistent burn left in the wake of the light and you feel his hand land on your shoulder again.  
  
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” the doctor begins softly.  
  
Christine is still rubbing your back reassuringly and you take a deep, shaky breath.  
  
“What is it?”  You ask weakly, your head swimming a little from the sedative he’d given you.  
  
“The good news is that this is something we can fix,” he explains, and your heart leaps, though carefully as you wait for the other shoe to drop.  
  
“What’s the bad news?”  You query.  
  
“It’s a retinal detachment,” the doctor continues.  “It’s spared your macula, but it came extremely close.  I’m confident that we can restore your vision to near perfect levels, but if your macula’s been disturbed after all, you may have a small bit of distortion in the vision in your right eye afterward, and that would be permanent.”  
  
“What kind of distortion?” You question, bouncing your legs nervously where they hang off of the side of the bio bed. “Does that mean I’ll be grounded?”  
  
One of the doctor’s hands lands on your knee, calming the anxious habit as he goes on speaking.  
  
“No,” he assures you.  “It’ll be minor, it might cause a bit of double vision until your brain gets used to the defect, but it’s not going to end your career, I promise you that.  I do have some concerns, though.”  
  
You meet his gaze, silently urging him to keep talking.  If you’re going to have to contend with even more complications, you just want to know what you’re facing so that you can start to get your head around things.  
  
“Neither myself nor Dr. M’Benga have much experience with the type of procedure you require,” Dr. McCoy says plainly. “I’ve watched several, assisted in a few more, and performed one.  The tear in your retina is, unfortunately, a fairly large one – too large to close with just a laser.  The surgery you need, a pars plana vitrectomy, is invasive and best performed by a specialist.  Now, we have all the equipment we need to fix it here, but we’ll be passing by a starbase in the next week that has a surgeon that would be able to perform the procedure for you.  There are risks to waiting, though; the tear can become bigger, and if it spreads in the wrong direction, you could face blindness.  If that’s what you want, however, I’ll keep you in here and resting so I can keep an eye on it until we can get you where you need to go.”  
  
“What’s my other option?” You croak, all of the moisture suddenly gone from your mouth, chased off by adrenaline.  
  
“I can perform the procedure,” the doctor answers slowly.  “I’ll need to take it slow, so you’ll be under the knife longer than you would be with someone more qualified, and while I’ve got steady hands, there’s still a risk that I might come too close to the macula while closing up the tear, endangering your vision further.”  
  
You sit in silence, absorbing what he’s said. You trust him implicitly, but you also know that your vision is critical to your work and things will be a lot harder for you if you’ve got to contend with losing your depth perception and fifty percent of your visual field.  With a sigh you glance up again, meeting his gaze.  
  
“What would you do?”  You ask.  
  
The doctor doesn’t hesitate.  
  
“I’d let me perform the procedure,” he replies. “We can always have you follow up with that specialist once we reach the starbase, but your vision stands a better chance of recovering if we act now.”  
  
It’s settled, then.  You nod.  
  
“When?”  You query.  “And… can you please explain what’s going to happen?  I’m really, really out of my depth here.  I’m scared.”  
  
“Of course you are, Y/N,” he murmurs.  “I don’t blame you.  I’ve got you though, darlin’; it’s going to be okay.”  
  
You smile weakly at the term of endearment, only just noticing that Christine’s gotten busy without so much as a word from the doctor while he’s been comforting you.  She’s pulled out a gown for you and assembled some IV supplies, and you marvel at their partnership as the CMO speaks again.  
  
“The procedure is relatively simple, though it takes an hour or two depending on exactly how complex the tear is to patch once I get in there,” he explains.  “We give you a bit of a sedative to keep you relaxed, we numb your eye with an injection of anaesthetic to the space around the nerves behind it, then we-“  
  
You cut him off, sucking in a sharp breath at his words and shaking your head.  
  
“N-no,” you stammer.  “I can’t handle a needle in my eye.  Please.  I-I don’t think I can do this.”  
  
“Okay, okay, sweetheart,” the doctor soothes you.  “It’s alright.  It’s higher risk, but I can put you to sleep for the surgery.  You’re young and healthy, I don’t foresee any problems with that.”  
  
You calm a little at his words, relief washing over you.  Your head is reeling so much that the sedative he’d given you minutes before already feels like it’s wearing off and you can feel yourself trembling.  You tip your head a bit, encouraging the doctor to keep talking as you keep on top of your emotions.  
  
You listen carefully to his explanation, trying your best to keep the mental images of what he’s talking about – incisions into your eye, lasers, stitches – at bay.  You groan inwardly as he explains what the recovery process will be like – two weeks of strict bedrest without any bending or lifting.  Once he falls silent after a couple of minutes, you stare off into space, processing what he’s said.  He gives you a moment to collect yourself, but after a minute has passed by in which you haven’t reacted, he bends to your level, catching your gaze.  
  
“If you’re okay with that, I’d like to get you set up right away,” he prods gently.  “The sooner we do it, the sooner you’re out of the woods and on your way to recovery.”   
  
You glance up sharply, your head snapping to attention and your heart rate increasing a good measure as you realize what he means; you’re going to be having surgery for the first time in your life, and on your eyes no less, within the hour.  Tears spring to your eyes again as panic consumes you, effectively overcoming the sedative he’d given entirely.  
  
“Y/N, hey, it’s alright,” the doctor says softly, his palms coming to rest on your shoulders.  “Just breathe for me.  Now, I’m not going to do anything without your consent – I won’t force anything on you.  You just tell me whenever you’re ready, okay?”  
  
You nod silently, looking into the doctor’s eyes as you work to breathe more evenly.  A few minutes go by before you’re able to speak but you finally find your voice.  
  
“Let’s do it,” you say quietly.  
  
“Alright,” the CMO says with a nod, moving to step away from you, intent on getting the ball rolling.  
  
You reach out, grabbing a hold of his sleeve to keep him from getting too far away.  He stops and turns his attention to you once again, searching your expression as you let go, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.  
  
“Sorry,” you mumble, casting your gaze downward.  “I just… Will you be there when I go to sleep?”  
  
The doctor nods.  
  
“And the second you wake up,” he promises. “I’m going to ready the OR – Christine will take good care of you for me in the meantime, darlin’.”  
  
Christine sweeps in to take his spot as he leaves the room and does her best to comfort you as she leads you to a different part of the med bay.  It doesn’t take her long to get you changed into a patient gown, and less time still to start an IV line and get you settled onto a bed.  You watch her go through the motions as she explains exactly what she’s doing, giving you more eye drops and some other standard pre-op medications.  
  
Before long you’re being wheeled into surgery and you’re beside yourself with anxiety.  You keep trying to find your voice, to ask Christine where Dr. McCoy is, but all you can do is lie there and tremble, withering from the fear.  You relax a fraction, however, as your bed is pushed through the OR doors and the doctor appears at your bedside.  
  
“I’m right here,” he assures you, then gestures to a woman behind a surgical mask.  “This is Amy; she’s going to be putting you to sleep.  I’m going to stay right here and hold your hand while you drift off and then I’ll see you in recovery.  Are you ready?”  
  
You take a deep, cleansing breath as Amy moves around, attaching monitor leads to your skin and tucking some blankets in around you to keep you warm and still throughout the procedure.  She leaves your hand out, though, and you shiver as you feel the doctor grasp your cold, clammy palm between his warm, gentle hands.   
  
A mask is placed over your face and you shut your eyes tightly as the doctor’s grip on your hand tightens.  You breathe deeply, wrinkling your nose at the rubber scent that permeates the mask, and before long Amy is telling you to count backwards from ten.  You feel a flush of warmth through your body and a stinging in the arm that your IV is in and that’s the last thing you remember before you’re off to sleep.  
  
You wake up a few hours later groaning and reaching up to pull at something uncomfortable on your face.  Your hand is met with another and you attempt to open your eyes but find it impossible to do so with the right one.    
  
“Good morning,” Dr. McCoy says from your beside.  “The surgery went very well.  You reacted a little more strongly to the anaesthesia than I had anticipated so I’m keeping you on a bit of low-flow oxygen to help wake you up for a while and your heart rate and blood pressure dropped a little more than expected so I’m going to keep you for observation until tomorrow.”  
  
You haven’t understood any of what he’s just said; you’re still floating in an anaesthetic haze, but his presence is comforting.  You could swear you hear him say something about getting some rest and you do, dozing off once more and sleeping for a while longer.  
  
You wake up throughout the night on occasion as a nurse comes in to check your vitals, and while you’re curious as to how the surgery went, you don’t feel any of the anxiety that you had before and you’re certain Dr. McCoy has given you something for those nerves again.    
  
Hours later, you’re sitting up in bed when he comes in to check on you at the start of his next shift.  He smiles warmly at you as he approaches your bedside and asks how you’re feeling as he glances at the screen at the foot of the bio bed, reading through the log of your vital signs from over night.  
  
“Okay,” you answer hoarsely.  “Li’l bit sore.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the anaesthetic, I’m afraid,” he explains.  “I’ll give you something for the pain shortly, but first I’m sure you’re dying to get that dressing off.”  
  
You nod, reaching up to gently run your fingers over the patch that’s covering your injured eye.  You watch the doctor move closer to you with bated breath and sit perfectly still as he reaches up and gently begins to peel the tape away from around the patch.  
  
“Remember,” he reminds you.  “You’re not going to be able to see clearly out of it for a week or two, so don’t panic.”  
  
You take a deep breath, trying to still your racing heart, and blink your eye open as he removes the patch at last.  It stings like crazy and feels like there’s something in it – the stitch he’d mentioned, most likely – but you can still see. Everything is extremely distorted, but you can make out shapes and colors.  You know that it’s just the gas he’d mentioned instilling to apply pressure to the repair, and you’re hopeful that even the little bit of vision means you’ll be back in working order soon.  
  
You and the doctor exchange some words as he gently cleans the remainder of the iodine from the procedure away and cleans the crusty bits that have collected in your eyelashes overnight.  He examines the eye and pronounces the procedure a true success.  You’re elated to hear it, and anxious for the next couple of weeks to go by.  
  
They do so excruciatingly slowly with you confined to your quarters on bedrest, but your vision improves day by day and you don’t mind the doctor stopping by to check on you twice daily much, either. The two of you are quickly becoming good friends as the time passes and by week’s end, he’s coming by to hang out just as much as he is to check in on you.  The two of you have a lot in common.  
  
When he appears the morning of your tenth day of recovery, he finds you sitting in bed and beaming.  With a smile of his own, he approaches you and takes a seat on the edge of your bed, setting down his med kit.  Reaching up, he gently cups your face, tracing his thumb over the cheekbone beneath your injured eye.  It’s still red and irritated from the sutures, but the drops he’s got you on are helping with the discomfort and besides, you’re no longer overly bothered by the residual symptoms.  
  
“I can see!” You burst out before he can say anything.  “The last of the air bubbles are gone!  I was reading before you came in!”  
  
Leonard, as he’s now having you call him, reaches out with his free hand to take one of yours and gives it a squeeze.  
  
“That’s great!”  He says excitedly.  “What about distortion?  Any double vision?”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“A little bit, but it’s nothing I can’t work around,” you reply.   
  
He smiles and pulls away from you, reaching into his med kit.  He quickly instills an antibiotic drop into the operative eye and then pulls something you’ve never seen before out of his kit.  It’s a small sheet of plastic with a grid printed on it with a dot at its center. He holds it up in front of you and asks you to close your uninjured eye and tell him what it looks like.  
  
“Uh, the lines are a little wavy,” you venture. “More around the very middle.”  
  
He nods and puts the grid away.  
  
“It looks like I may have done a small amount of macular damage,” he explains.  “The central distortion is characteristic of it.  I’m sorry, darlin’ – there’s no way to fix that.”  
  
You smile softly and shake your head, reaching out to take his hand in yours and giving it a squeeze.  
  
“If I have to live with a little bit of double vision, I will,” you say firmly.  “It could have been so much worse if you hadn’t acted quickly.  You saved my vision, and I don’t know how I can ever thank you for that.”  
  
He laughs softly and meets your gaze, his eyes dropping to your lips for a moment and making your head spin before settling on yours again.  
  
“Have dinner with me,” he suggests.  
  
You’re floored and you want nothing more than to pounce on him for a hug, but you’re still on bedrest and you somehow feel like throwing yourself at the man would be a violation of the “take it easy” rule.  Instead, you nod and edge forward a little, reaching out to put your hands on his shoulders.  
  
“I’d love to,” you murmur, your own gaze dropping to  _his_ mouth this time.  
  
It’s all the encouragement he needs and a split second later, his lips are pressed gently up against yours.  He tastes like coffee and you drink him in, finding him as bold and rich as what he’d imbibed.  You can’t help but smile into the kiss.  
  
It took you nearly losing your vision to find a lover, and now that you have him, you’re never letting him go.


	23. W is for Wheezing

You glance at your watch and pop the tablet you’re palming into your mouth, chasing it with a sip of water.  You’ve got just over an hour until you’re due to give your first major faculty-wide research presentation and your nerves are so bad that you’re feeling weak in the knees even in your seated position. You just pray that the medication you’d been prescribed the day before will help soothe the anxiety you’re feeling. You know your stuff, but generalized anxiety doesn’t take holidays, especially where crowds of people are concerned.  The pill, as stated by your prescribing physician, is meant to regulate your heart rate so that you’re not feeling the pervasive physical anxiety you’ve come to associate with public speaking.  
  
As the minutes tick by with other cadets presenting their projects, you shift anxiously in your seat, waiting, hoping for some sign that the medication is working.  Your symptoms don’t seem to be improving much, however, as you flatten a hand to your chest and realize that your heart is still pounding away as hard and fast as ever.

Your name is called a short while later and you try to smile as you make your way up to the podium, swallowing thickly as the holo screen behind you brings up images of your research.  You’re so anxious that even your breathing is becoming labored and you fight to keep it together as you begin your talk, discussing the longevity of heavy metals deposited in wetland sediments in the early twenty first century and their effects on local fauna.  
  
The presentation lasts a half hour, with a period for questions at the end, and by the time it’s over you’re about ready to faint.  Something feels wrong – worse than just your normal anxiety – and you make your way out the nearest door during the intermission between your presentation and the next, hurrying toward the campus medical building.  You feel like you’re having an asthma attack, but it’s much more severe than what you’re used to.  You curse inwardly as you grope around for your inhaler and realize you’d left it in your quarters this morning.  Hoping you can hold on for a while still, you pick up the pace a bit.  
  
As you walk in through the medical centre’s door, you clutch your chest and pause long enough to take a few breaths. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get a full breath in and your chest aches with the effort.  You’re beginning to feel dizzy and so you push onward, making your way to the reception desk, your hands shaking as you reach it and lean against the counter.  
  
“Can I help you?”  The receptionist asks, glancing at you over her computer screen.  
  
“I need to see Dr. Harper,” you wheeze. “Something’s wrong.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Dr. Harper isn’t in today,” the receptionist says lightly.  “Scan your ID badge here and I’ll put you in the queue to see someone else, or I can book you in for Friday when he gets back.”  
  
Resigned, you pull your badge out of your pocket and run it over the sensor on the desk, turning to find a seat.  Your breathing is noisy and uneasy as you scan the waiting room, and you’re just about to take a step toward a nearby empty chair when you feel a hand land on your shoulder.  
  
“Are you alright?”  A man’s voice asks, clearly concerned.  
  
You turn to face its owner and find yourself staring at a tall, handsome, hazel-eyed man who looks really familiar. It takes you a second to realize that he’s been in a few of your classes and you shake your head as you sift through your memory, trying to recall his name.  
  
“No,” you reply.  “I can’t breathe.”  
  
“Y/N, is it?”  The man – a doctor, you realize – asks.  “Come on, follow me.”  
  
You allow yourself to be led through a door off to the side of the waiting room and escorted down a short hallway, into an exam room.  The doctor gestures for you to take a seat on the bio bed as he picks a PADD up off of the desk, pulling up your file.  You climb onto the bed and sit down, watching the doctor as he picks up a tricorder and steps toward you.  
  
“I’m sorry,” you say hoarsely.  “I can’t remember your name.”  
  
“McCoy,” he answers as he reaches up to scan you with the instrument.  “Leonard McCoy.  Now, tell me what’s going on, Cadet.”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“I just finished giving a presentation,” you answer as he waves the tricorder around your neck and chest.  “I started feeling short of breath while I was on stage. I thought it was just anxiety, but it kept getting worse.  Then I thought it was my asthma, but this isn’t what that normally feels like, either.”  
  
The doctor frowns as he sets his tricorder down and his gaze locks with yours.  He gestures to your regulation uniform.  
  
“I’ll need you to remove your jacket,” he instructs.  “Is your asthma well controlled?”  
  
“Yes,” you reply, unzipping your top and shrugging out of it.  “I usually only need to use my inhaler if I’m exerting myself in the cold.  I haven’t had much of a problem with it since moving to San Fran, but back in Montana it tended to act up in the winter time.”  
  
The doctor makes a noncommittal noise and steps closer, running his fingertips over your neck and collarbones, not eliciting any tenderness.  
  
“Any allergies?”  He continues.  
  
You shake your head, watching Leonard as he steps away from your bedside and turns his attention to a drawer across the room.  He fiddles with something out of sight for a moment and then turns to face you once more, holding up a hypo.  Sighing, you obediently tip your head to the side without being asked, earning yourself a small smile from the physician.  
  
“Why can’t all of my patients be so accommodating?”  He asks wryly.  “Just a bit of a sting here.”  
  
The pinch of the injection barely even registers and you’re relieved as you begin to feel the tightness in your chest easing within moments.  On the heels of the relief, however, is more anxiety as whatever he just gave you begins to jack up your heart rate.  You swallow thickly and gasp softly as your heart gallops away in your chest, making you dizzy.  
  
“Let’s get you lying down,” Dr. McCoy suggests, giving you a hand as you swivel around on the bed and pull your legs up so you can lie back.  “You’ll feel better in a few minutes, the drug I gave you to help your breathing just has a tendency to put your fight-or-flight response into overdrive.”  
  
You feel a little bit better lying down and you close your eyes for a moment, focusing on finally being able to take deep breaths again as the doctor reads your vital signs where they’re being displayed on the bio bed’s readout screen.  
  
“Are you taking any medications besides the inhaler?”  He asks.  
  
“Just the Salbutamol,” you reaffirm. “Oh, I guess contraceptives count, too, right?  I get the injections every three months.  I took something to help with the anxiety today, too, but it didn’t help much.”  
  
You blink your eyes open as a shadow is cast across your face and you’re met with Leonard leaning in over you, sparing you from the bright overhead lamps.  
  
“What was it?”  He queries.  
  
You shrug and reach for your jacket, fishing around in one of the pockets.  You pull out the small bottle that contains the tablets you were given and read the label.  
  
“Propranolol, forty milligrams,” you answer, holding the bottle out to him.  
  
His expression as he takes the bottle from you to inspect it is equal parts concerned and furious and you find yourself shrinking back away from him a little.  
  
“Who prescribed these for you?”  He questions, his tone strained.  
  
“Dr. Harper,” you reply.  “I came in yesterday because someone had told me that they take it to help them with social anxiety and I have a public speaking problem, so I thought they might help.”  
  
The doctor’s mouth forms a silent word that looks a suspicious lot like  _fuck_ before he rolls his eyes and sets the pill bottle aside.  He glances at your vitals again and reaches out to take your wrist, manually feeling your pulse.  You must look confused because his expression softens once more and he meets your gaze.  
  
“All these machines can tell me everything I need to know,” he expands.  “Every little detail about your physical condition – your temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, you name it – but nothing compares to a good, old-fashioned physical exam.  The integrity of your pulse is just as important to me as the rate.”  
  
His momentary foray into the hows and whys is not enough to distract you from the emotions you had witnessed on his face just moments before.  
  
“Is there something wrong?”  You ask, worried now.  “Should I not have taken that pill?”  
  
“Not necessarily,” he replies.  “This medication should just always be used with caution in someone with known asthma – it can precipitate an asthma attack.”  
  
Your brows furrow in concern.  
  
“He never told me that,” you murmur as the doctor lets go of your wrist.  
  
“Did you tell him you had asthma when he took your medical history?”  Leonard prods further as he crosses the room and opens a drawer, pulling out an old-fashioned stethoscope.  
  
“He knew about it,” you explain as he returns to your side and pauses to let you finish.  “He saw it in my chart and asked me a lot of the same questions you are.”  
  
Leonard nods and slips the stethoscope on, adjusting it to his comfort and reaching out to press the disc to your chest. You breathe as per his instructions, deeply, in through your nose and out through your mouth.  It doesn’t take him long to finish his exam and within moments, he’s hanging the stethoscope around his neck for lack of anywhere else to put it and leaning in over you.  
  
“Your wheezing has improved, but it hasn’t gone all together,” he supplies.  “I’m going to keep you here for an hour to make sure your asthma doesn’t flare up again when the hypo wears off.  Afterward, I’ll send you home with a prescription for some steroids to keep the inflammation in your lungs down for a few days, at least until the propranolol has worked its way out of your system.”  
  
You feel like there’s an unspoken third part to his sentence as you prop yourself up on your elbows.  The racing of your heart has slowed a bit and you’re feeling a lot better, so you slowly sit up all the way, resting your palms on your thighs as you watch the doctor enter some notes into his PADD.  
  
“You’re on Dr. Harper’s patient roster,” Dr. McCoy comments.  “But if you’ll allow it, I’d like to transfer your care to another physician.”  
  
You’re confused as you look over and meet his gaze when he glances up from the PADD.  It isn’t lost on him that you need context and he sighs as he sets the tablet down, approaching your bedside once more.  
  
“While your medical history is by no means complicated, you need an attending physician who pays more attention to detail,” he explains.  “Dr. Harper is a brand new attending and needs to spend a little more time with his nose to the grindstone and learning how to talk to patients.  I’d feel more comfortable if you were under the care of someone more practiced.”  
  
“Like you?”  You ask with a smile.  
  
To your surprise, the man whom you’re used to seeing serious and often grumpy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
“I was going to suggest Dr. Yue, but if you’d prefer to leave your care to me, I’d be happy to take you on as a patient,” he says warmly.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll do right by me,” you say with a giggle.  “Thank you, Dr. McCoy.”  
  
He waves off your words.  
  
“Please, call me Leonard,” he insists, glancing at the screen displaying your vitals for a moment before returning his attention to you.  “We’re in some of the same classes, I figure we may as well be on a first name basis.”  
  
You nod, feeling more at ease around him than you ever have around a doctor before.    
  
“Speaking of classes, have you finished the assignment for astronomy yet?”  You ask playfully.  “I’m stuck on number six.”  
  
He rolls his eyes and wipes a hand over his face, looking exasperated.  
  
“I haven’t even  _started_  it,” he admits. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in a xenophysiology paper.  I may be good at human medicine, but other species are a whole new ball game.”  
  
“I can imagine,” you sympathize, rapping your knuckles on the bio bed beneath you.  “Whenever you let me out of here, why don’t I stick around until your break? I can help you with that assignment as a thank you.”  
  
“That’s not necessary,” Leonard says with a shake of his head, stopping to meet your eyes again.  “But I’d love it if you did.  It’s always less of a pain in the ass doing homework with someone else. Misery loves company, right?”  
  
Amusement twinkles in your eyes as you hold his gaze, enthralled by the dance of the greens and browns in his irises. Your heart flutters and the bio bed registers the sudden palpitations, getting the doctor’s attention.  
  
“I’ve got a break coming up soon,” he offers. “Looks like you’re still recovering from that hypo.  Go ahead and lie back for a little while.  I’ll come by to check on you just before my break and if you’re feeling alright, we can get some lunch and look over that assignment.  How’s that sound?”  
  
You can feel your cheeks flushing as you nod, just thanking the stars that he’d attributed your accelerated heart rate to something other than attraction.  
  
“Great,” you answer.  “I’ll be here with bells on!”  
  
He laughs and nods, reaching up to put a hand on your shoulder.  He encourages you wordlessly to lie back and you comply easily, shifting around until you’re comfortable.  You watch Leonard as he presses a few buttons on the bio bed, patching its signal through to the nurses’ station and his PADD so you can be monitored remotely.  He’s finished within seconds and giving you one last smile as he turns to leave.  
  
“Just relax, darlin’,” Leonard says softly, dimming the lights so they’re not burning your retinas.  “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”  
  
“Looking forward to it,” you call to his retreating back.  
  
As the door to the room slides closed, you can’t help but grin like a maniac.  You squeal and bury your face in your hands, giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush on the hottest boy in the class, which you sort of are at this point. Hearing the bio bed signal a warning that your heart rate was creeping up again made you suck in a breath in an attempt to calm down lest you bring anyone running and embarrass yourself.  
  
You spend the next little while simply lying there, counting the seconds as they pass by, waiting for the handsome doctor to return.  Despite the scare you’d had over the shortness of breath, you’re recovering quickly and looking forward to the date you never would have had if it wasn’t for another doctor’s glaring oversight.  Perhaps you should be angry, but you just can’t find it in yourself as the memory of Leonard’s warm touch and concerned gaze flash in your mind, reminding you that you’ll be looking into those eyes again very soon, getting lost without a care in the world.


	24. X is for Xenopolycythemia

You watch Leonard from across the room, leaning on the desk to chart while he finishes up talking to a patient.  You’re concerned about him; he hasn’t been himself all morning, he’s flushed and looking like he’s coming down with something, and while you’ve given him a chance to admit that something is wrong, you can’t stand by and watch anymore.  
  
As he leaves the ensign’s bedside and heads for his office, you pick up your PADD and beeline off after him, following him through the door before it manages to slide closed all the way.  He jumps, clearly startled at your proximity as he turns to face you and looks down at you from his lofty height.  
  
“Can I help you?”  He asks, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
Up close, you can see that he’s got a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  He’s breathing a bit quickly and he’s hunched a little – not enough to be immediately noticeable, but he’s definitely not standing at his full height. Reaching out, you gently touch his cheek, cupping his face in your hand.  
  
“Yeah,” you reply.  “You can let  _me_  help  _you_.”

“I’m fine,” he says firmly.

It’s his insistence that assures you your hunch is right – there’s something wrong and he doesn’t want to admit it. If he was fine he’d be questioning you, not outright shutting you down.  You shake your head, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone.  
  
“If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to figure it out for myself,” you say with a sigh.  “I may not be as brilliant as you, but I am still a doctor.”  
  
Leonard rolls his eyes and reaches up, running his fingers through your hair.  At first you’re sure it’s to distract you, but his expression is softer when you look more closely and his wry smile is telling of the fact that you’ve won.  
  
“Alright,” he says with a nod.  “You’re right.  I’ll let you take a look at the end of the shift.  We’ve only got another couple of hours.  I’ll be fine until then.”  
  
You’re less than pleased, but you accept his compromise with a nod.    
  
“Deal,” you say with a smile, stepping up onto your tip toes to kiss him.  “I’ll be expecting you in room three at eighteen-hundred hours.”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” Leonard murmurs, returning your smile with a faint one of his own.  
  
You step back, giving him some space to get back to what he was doing before you’d interrupted him and then turn on your heel, striding out of his office.  You throw yourself into the appointments you have booked over the next couple of hours, performing physicals and follow ups until the end of the shift rolls around.  When the next round of doctors and nurses show up, you hand off your report and turn around, looking for Leonard, just in time to see the CMO step into the preselected exam room.  
  
You give him a few moments to settle in and prepare for you, knowing that he hates getting medical attention almost as much as everyone else does (if not more so sometimes), and then you head for the exam room.  You rap on the door, giving him a second to collect himself, and then step inside, letting the door glide shut behind you.  Depositing your PADD on the counter, you walk closer to him, fingering the tricorder in your pocket.  
  
“What’s going on, Lee?”  You ask, your eyes taking in the deep red flush of his cheeks and the air of complete exhaustion he’s exuding.  
  
He coughs a couple of times, bringing up his arm to cover his mouth so he’s not exposing you to whatever he has unnecessarily. You frown, reaching up to gently cup his cheek and feeling surprised when you don’t sense the heat of a fever radiating off of him.  
  
“It’s probably just a cold,” he rationalizes, shaking himself off after the cough.  
  
“I doubt it,” you disagree.  “You don’t feel feverish.”  
  
Pulling your hand away from his face, you take his hands instead, gasping at how cold and clammy his palms are. Bringing his hands up closer for inspection, you notice the duskiness of the skin at his nail beds.  Furrowing your eyebrows, you set his hands down in his lap and look up just in time to see him sway dizzily.  Setting a hand on his shoulder to steady him, your expression grim, you touch his wrist to check his pulse.  
  
“Any pain anywhere?”  You query, glancing at the bio bed’s read out to corroborate what you’re feeling with what the machine is telling you.  
  
“Left upper quadrant,” he replies.  “It could be mono.”  
  
You roll your eyes.  
  
“Have you been kissing someone else and not telling me, Dr. McCoy?”  You tease.  
  
It’s his turn to give you a wry look as he starts to go on about how kissing disease is a stupid moniker and how there are dozens of ways to pick up the Epstein-Barr virus but you silence him with an order.  
  
“Lie down,” you instruct with authority, leaving him no room to argue.  
  
“This really isn’t necessary, Y/N,” he tries anyway while doing as you’ve asked.  “I’m sure it’s just a virus.”  
  
“Self-diagnosis is highly frowned upon, doctor,” you admonish him as you step up to his side, slipping a hand beneath his tunic and gently palpating his abdomen.  “I would have thought you knew better.  Any pain here?”  
  
He shakes his head as you press on all the quadrants aside from the one he’s indicated.  You watch his face closely as you finally apply pressure to the left upper side and give him an apologetic look as he recoils, guarding the sore spot unconsciously.  You palpate a little more deeply a couple of times and then remove your hand, resting it on his thigh and stroking there gently.  
  
“Your spleen’s enlarged,” you say pointedly. “Let’s run some scans.”  
  
Leonard’s sigh is not lost on you.  You pull out your tricorder and slowly wave it over his body from head to toe, ensuring that you’re not missing anything. You frown at the readings, running the scans again just to be sure.  
  
“You’ve already had xenopolycythemia, right?” You ask him, staring at the readout.  
  
“Yeah,” he replies.  “Why?  What’d you find?”  
  
He props himself up on his elbows, craning his head in an attempt to look at your tricorder.  
  
“Your hematocrit’s over sixty,” you murmur.   “Given your history I might suspect a flare up, but you were cured, weren’t you?  You shouldn’t be relapsing.”  
  
Sitting up all the way, Leonard swings his legs over the edge of the bed and takes the tricorder from your hands, getting a better look at the screen.  Cursing under his breath, he sets the instrument down and runs a hand through his hair.  
  
“It doesn’t make sense,” he sputters.  “I have antibodies to the virus now.  I shouldn’t relapse, let alone so soon. It’s only been a couple of years.”  
  
You reach out, putting a hand on Leonard’s shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly.    
  
“I’ll take some blood,” you insist. “We’ll run some scans and go from there.”  
  
Leonard nods, already holding out his arm though you’re only just gathering the supplies you need.  It doesn’t take you long to set up and within a few minutes, you’re drawing the necessary vials of blood and securing a cotton ball over the needle stick with a piece of tape.  
  
“I’m going to go and run a few tests on these,” you explain, finishing up.  “I’ll be back soon to run a full body scan to look for the beginnings of any emboli.”  
  
He looks like he wants to argue and follow you to the lab instead, but he refrains.  
  
“Just try to relax in the meantime,” you say softly.  “I know you’re not very good at it, but the last thing you need is to drive your blood pressure up and stroke out.”  
  
Leonard rolls his eyes at you but complies, lying back on the bio bed as you rush off to run some tests.  You drop three of the vials of blood off for routine testing, and keep the fourth one in hand, inverting it every few seconds to distribute the anticoagulant inside of it as you carry it to the xenobiology lab.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, after the biology wizards have had their fun, you make your way back toward the med bay, somewhat troubled by their findings.  You stop by the nurses’ desk, quickly checking the results of Leonard’s remaining blood work on your PADD and breathing a sigh of relief that at least everything else looks fine.  Pushing the PADD aside, you head back into Leonard’s room, earning yourself an immediate turn of the head from the other doctor as you enter and approach his bedside.  
  
“What is it?”  Leonard asks, aware of your puzzlement already.  
  
You curse his perception inwardly and try to rearrange your expression into one less dire.  
  
“You’ve got a new strain of the virus,” you say briefly, sparing him the details.  “You’re not relapsing, you’ve got a whole new disease with the same symptomology.”  
  
Leonard curses aloud, showing no further sign of his frustration aside from a slight quickening of his heart rate.  As he considers what the diagnosis means, you busy yourself with preparing a hypo for him, hoping that the cure for the original virus would be effective on this one, too.    
  
With the hypo in hand, you return to Leonard’s beside and hold it up, wordlessly asking for his consent to administer the medication.  He gladly exposes his neck for the shot and doesn’t even flinch with the injection. You glance at the chron as you step away and enter his treatment details into your PADD before facing him once more.  
  
“Now, we wait,” you say softly.  
  
“I’ve never been very good at that,” Leonard grumbles.  
  
You chuckle and nod.  
  
“Don’t I know it,” you agree.  “Get some rest, Lee.  I’ll come check on you in a half hour, see if your crit’s come down yet.”  
  
The half hour flies by in the blink of an eye, and a follow up check of his blood count shows that his hematocrit hasn’t come down.  It hasn’t increased much, either, which is a good sign, but that isn’t much of a consolation to Leonard when you tell him what’s going on.  
  
Two more hours pass by, with hourly checks showing no change in his condition.  Flummoxed, you lean against the counter opposite the bio bed he’s propped up on and cross your arms over your chest.  
  
“It’s evolved a resistance to the treatment,” you offer.  “The medication doesn’t seem to be doing it.”  
  
“Why don’t we try another dose?”  Leonard suggests, but you immediately shake your head.  
  
“The side effects might worsen, possibly catastrophically, and I doubt we’ll see any improvement,” you explain.  “I’m going to treat you the old-fashioned way until someone in the lab can figure out how to kill this thing.  Mr. Spock is quite knowledgeable about all of this, if I remember correctly – I’ll have him give the team a hand.”  
  
Leonard groans and nods, lying down once again and pulling his sleeve up as high as it’ll go.  The only way to keep him stable until you find a cure is to draw off a pint of blood or two to decrease his red blood cell count and prevent problematic blood clotting, and so you assemble a phlebotomy kit, setting it down at his side.  
  
The set up takes you less than two minutes, and before long you’ve got an IV line inserted and taped into place.  You hook the line up to a blood bag and hang it below the level of his heart, watching blood slowly trickle into it and scanning him with your tricorder to keep an eye on his blood count.  You’re relieved to see it coming down after you’d drained a pint of blood and once you’re satisfied with where his levels are at, you stop the treatment all together.  
  
“Listen,” Leonard begins as you disconnect the set up.  “If we can’t find a cure, there are some things I want you to do for me.”  
  
You hold up a hand to stop him as you dispose of the phlebotomy kit.  
  
“We’ll find one,” you promise.  “And even if we don’t, we have a year to talk about all of that.”  
  
You’re fighting to keep your voice from cracking as you speak, and you shake your head as Leonard tries to get another word in.  You can see the echo of the pain and uncertainty in his eyes from the last time he was sick, and for the first time you find yourself wondering whether there’s more to the story than what you’ve seen in his medical chanrts.  
  
“Please,” you say quietly.  “I can’t focus on finding a cure right now with you talking like that.  Let’s have this discussion later.  Your vitals are good and the draw should hold you for a while, so I’ll let you head back to your quarters.  I’m going to head over to the lab to check on things.  I’ll be up soon and then we can talk.”  
  
You move toward him and press a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips, squeezing his shoulder once more before turning to make your way out of the room.  You’re not very good at processing big feelings, and you make haste so that you don’t break down.  You don’t have time to break down when his life is at risk.  
  
Rushing down to the biology lab, you find they’ve made no progress.  You stay for an hour in hopes that your presence might be some kind of a boon, a good luck charm, but nothing changes.  Reluctantly, not ready to face your feelings, you head up to your room. You run a hand through your hair, exhaustion claiming you and making your stomach turn.    
  
A wave of dizziness washes over you as you enter your access code into the keypad outside of Leonard’s room and you take a steadying breath before stepping inside.  You’re not in the least bit surprised to find Leonard sitting on the couch and watching the door intently; he’s clearly been waiting for you. Letting the door slide shut behind you, you step forward slowly and make your way over to him.  You deposit your PADD and tricorder on the table and take a seat opposite him, searching your brain for the right words to say.  
  
“Tell me about last time,” you urge at last. “I can’t even imagine how scary it was, getting that diagnosis.”  
  
Leonard nods, reaching out to spear his fingers in between yours, entangling your hands in the space between you.  
  
“I was still trying to pick up the pieces after Jocelyn,” he explains.  “I got the news and I was scared of facing it alone.  Of dying alone.  We went on a mission and I had a lapse in judgment – I got married to a woman who was living on borrowed time, too, in a way.  When I look back on it, I realize how stupid it was, and how impulsive, but at the time, with all the grief, the anger, the fear – it made sense.  I’ll tell you the whole story some time, but this isn’t the time or place.  It’s irrelevant now, anyway; this time, I’m not facing this alone.”  
  
You smile sadly and watch Leonard’s expression fall, if possible, even more.  
  
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he says quietly.  
  
Your eyes widen and your lips part in surprise at his words – they’re definitely not what you were expecting.  
  
“What for, Lee?”  You ask.  “For being sick?  For being mortal?”  
  
You shake your head, inching closer to him, reaching up to gently cup his cheek.  
  
“Don’t apologize, Lee,” you rebuke softly. “I’d find some reason or other to worry about you, regardless, and this isn’t goodbye.  It’s not.”  
  
You lean in slowly and press your lips to his, cutting off whatever he was going to say.  The kiss is chaste but comforting, and you pull away moments later with a smile.  The smile falters for a split second as you feel an ache in your abdomen and you curse inwardly as you realize your wince isn’t lost on Leonard.  
  
“This new strain,” he begins, his tone grave. “How virulent is it?”  
  
You shake your head, immediately wanting to deny what he’s getting at, but you realize that you can’t.  
  
“I don’t know,” you supply.  
  
“Lie back,” Leonard instructs you, all affection gone from his demeanor, replaced by worry and a physician’s cool countenance.  
  
Now your mind is racing with the implications of his condition, not just the emotional ramifications.  You do as he asks, sitting back against the couch cushions and slumping down a little.  His hand lands on your abdomen and palpates around gently, eliciting tenderness in the left upper quadrant.  His facial expression says it all.  
  
“Scan me,” you say resignedly.    
  
Leonard wastes no time in reaching for the tricorder you’d deposited on the table earlier and he activates it, waving it over you.  You already know what it’s going to say, and your mind is reeling with the protocols you’re going to have to activate now that the xenopolycythemia has been transmitted so easily.  
  
“We need to get you to medical,” Leonard insists, setting the tricorder aside again.  
  
You nod.  
  
“Quarantine,” the two of you say in sync.  
  
“Everyone on board needs to be scanned,” you add.  
  
Leonard’s expression is grim.  
  
“I’ll call Jim as we walk,” he states. “Let’s go.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are behind the isolation partition in the med bay, the negative pressure in the room keeping the flow of air from mixing back in with the airflow going to the rest of the ship.  M’Benga is handling arranging screenings for the rest of the crew while you and Leonard monitor and take care of one another.  You’re both still fully capable of doing your jobs, you just can’t be exposed to anyone else until more is known about the virus.    
  
The captain is, understandably, out of sorts.  
  
“Dr. M’Benga is changing the schedule around a little bit to account for your indispositions until we figure things out,” he explains, his voice strained.  “The folks in biology are working on it – we’ll have you two cured in no time.  Rumor has it they can build a new molecule using the old cure as a base.  They think it’ll work, it’ll just take some time.”  
  
Neither you nor Leonard need him to say the rest of what he’s thinking aloud.  
  
“We have time,” you assure the captain. “We’ve got it under control.”  
  
You can tell he’s not convinced, even after Leonard promises him that things will be fine, but he takes his leave nevertheless.  The two of you are left alone in isolation, lying around, waiting, scanning one another every hour to monitor the disease’s progression.    
  
Four days pass by incredibly slowly and largely uneventfully.  The mutated virus causes your respective hematocrits to rise much more quickly than the original virus and so you’re stuck undergoing phlebotomies daily to keep your symptoms in check.  Thankfully, a thorough check of everyone on board has revealed that no one else is sick, and an environmental scan has shown the virus is not airborne – you must have caught it when you’d kissed Leonard.  
  
The two of you deal with a lot of feelings throughout the four days.  Both of you cycle through anger, fear, uncertainty, and everything in between.  You used to think that grief came in stages, in a certain order to those who had lost someone, but facing your own mortality – and Leonard’s – was showing you that grief comes in many forms, and it’s hardly predictable.  You break down, crying and wondering what you’re going to tell your family as Leonard’s strong arms hold you and he makes promises that he can’t keep about how you’ll be okay, everything will be okay.  Leonard breaks down, too, but not to your face.  You can hear him, though, late at night in the bathroom after he thinks you’ve gone to sleep.  You want to go to him, but you resist; he’s an intensely personal man and you know that he’ll come to you when he’s ready.  
  
About half way through the fifth day, just as Leonard is waving a tricorder around you for the hundredth time since the start of the ordeal, a knock on the glass outside of the exam room gets both of your attentions.  Leonard sets the tricorder down and steps out of the room.  He isn’t gone three seconds before he’s poking his head back in, gesturing for you to follow him.  
  
You hop down from the bio bed and make your way out of the exam room, finding the captain and Dr. M’Benga waiting for the two of you on the other side of the partition.  The doctor is holding a couple of hypo vials in one hand and smiling, and you know even before he makes the announcement that they’ve found the cure.  
  
“It’s not without side effects,” Dr. M’Benga warns.  “But we anticipate that it will be effective.”  
  
“Thanks, Geoff,” Leonard says with a relieved smile.  “We’ll keep you informed.”  
  
The other doctor nods.  
  
“I’d recommend taking it one at a time,” M’Benga offers.  “Just in case the side effects require intervention.  If you need backup, just call and I’ll get gowned up and join you.”  
  
The two of you exchange determined glances and then look back at Geoff.  
  
“Will do,” you assert.  
  
Geoff drops the vials into a delivery slot in the partition and departs with the captain in tow.  You pluck them out in return and turn them over in your hands, staring at the amber liquid therein.  You look over at Leonard who is similarly inspecting the vials and smile.  
  
“Let’s do this,” you say determinedly.    
  
“After you,” Leonard insists, gesturing to the exam room the two of you had recently vacated.  
  
You step inside but refrain from getting up onto the bio bed.  You hover nervously, torn between wanting to go first to spare Leonard the same fear you were facing over how your body would react to the cure and wanting him to go first so you would be prepared for whatever eventuality.  He joins you, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder.  
  
“I’ll go first, darlin’,” he says softly, moving to take a step forward.  
  
Reaching out, you grab hold of his shirt and hold him back, shaking your head.  
  
“No,” you say with certainty, though your voice wavers a little.  “It’s fine. I can do this.  Side effects or not, it’ll all be over soon, right?”  
  
The other doctor nods and leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.  
  
“Don’t be scared,” he reassures you. “I’ll take care of you.  I won’t let anything bad happen.”  
  
You nod and take a deep, steadying breath, stepping around him to climb onto the bio bed.  You lie back and rest your arms by your sides, closing your eyes and tipping your head up to receive the medication.  You listen carefully to the mechanical clicking noises as Leonard loads one of the vials into a hypo spray and to his footsteps as they approach your side.  
  
“A little pinch here, darlin’,” he explains, pressing the hypo to your neck and injecting its contents.  
  
The serum burns like liquid fire as it seeps into your muscles and slips into your veins.  Each pump of your heart sends the medication further, faster, causing the heat to spread throughout your core and limbs.  You shut your eyes tightly against the sensation and find yourself breathing hard, attempting to relax against the assault.  Leonard is taking your hand in an instant, mere seconds after the injection, and you can tell he’s noticed your state of discomfort.  
  
“Talk to me, darlin’,” he says, his voice firm but reassuring at the same time.  “Tell me what you’re feeling.”  
  
“Hurts,” you croak, licking your lips. “I’m hot.”  
  
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s carefully observing your vital signs as he comforts you, reaching up to stroke your hair as a sheen of perspiration wells up across your forehead.  You know things are quickly becoming critical as you start to tremble violently and your heart begins to feel like it’s trying to beat out of your chest.  
  
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” Leonard states, letting go of your hand so he can retrieve another hypo.  
  
“No!”  You call, opening your eyes and looking over at him, tears leaving tracks on your temples as they run into your hair.  “I-I don’t want anything to interact.”  
  
Leonard curses under his breath, returning to your side to take your hand again, his other palm landing on your hip and stroking there softly.  
  
“Fine,” he agrees.  “But if your heart rate keeps climbing, I’m going to have to intervene.  You’re at one-thirty as it is.”  
  
You nod, attempting to normalize it a little bit by taking a few deep breaths, but even your lungs feel like they’re on fire. You grit your teeth, focusing on the feeling of Leonard’s hand on your hip, girding yourself to get through the agony for however long it lasts.  
  
And that it does for the next three hours. You’re so used to the pain that when it finally wears off, you hardly notice at first.  The residual flaring in your nerve endings has you occupied until Leonard speaks, squeezing your hand to get your full attention.  
  
“Your vitals are stabilizing,” he states. “Let’s run a scan and see where you’re at.”  
  
You lie still as he runs the tricorder over your body, watching his face for any clues to your condition.  His expression is serious, as usual, but not unduly so and you relax a fraction as he looks up at you, his features brightening into a grin.  
  
“I can’t find any traces of the virus,” he explains.  “And your hematocrit’s stabilized; looks like you’re cured, sweetheart.  One more phlebotomy and you’re out of the woods.”  
  
A soft laugh bubbles out of you and you groan as you prop yourself up onto your elbows.  Leonard’s hand lands on your shoulder and he attempts to push you back down to rest but you shake him off, grabbing his arm instead and using it as leverage to pull yourself up into a sitting position.  
  
“I’m fine, Lee,” you murmur.  “Tired, but fine.  It’s time to load you up.”  
  
You slip down from the bio bed, ignoring the shrill chirping that indicates it has lost a signal, and gesture for Leonard to take your place.  He does so swiftly and before long you’ve got a hypo at the ready for him.  Before you administer the medication, you give him a quick scan, mentally noting his significantly elevated red blood cell count, and taking heed of his vitals, too.  As you finish up, you look down at him from his bedside, laying your hand gently on his cheek and smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone.  
  
“It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” you warn. “But it won’t be for long.  Just try to relax.”  
  
Leonard wordlessly nods his consent and allows you to inject him with the serum.  You quickly realize that experiencing the serum as a bystander is just as horrible as it was feeling it working in your own body.  You watch Leonard’s skin flush, his muscles bunch, and his eyes shut tightly as the burning begins.  It’s your turn to worry now as his blood pressure and heart rate soar while the cure ravages his body, the agony an ugly side effect of its battle against the virus holding the two of you hostage.  
  
You sit at his bedside, carding the fingers of one hand through his hair, holding one of his hands with the other, murmuring soft words of encouragement as he breathes in sharp gasps occasionally punctuated by groans.  Like clockwork, three hours later, his vitals begin to level out and you realize he’s overcome the fight just like you had.  
  
“You did great,” you whisper softly, picking up your tricorder.  “Hold still for me.”  
  
You don’t realize that you’ve been holding your breath until you feel all of the air leave your lungs in a rush when his hematocrit pops up on the screen.    
  
“Stable,” you muse aloud.  “Thank the stars, Lee; it worked!”  
  
He smiles weakly, groaning as he shifts around and moves to sit up.  You offer him a hand, your strength having returned in the hours you’d spent watching him, and he’s sitting up and facing you within moments.  You move to stand between his legs, stepping up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his lips and you shiver as his hands comes to rest on either side of your neck.  
  
You pour all of your passion in the kiss: a passion that’s been pent up, locked away behind grief and fear and questions of when.  Your hands land on Leonard’s hips and you slowly slide them higher, beneath his shirt, splaying your palms on his skin and drinking him in as your breath begins to come more quickly.  His hands wander into your hair, tugging on it, creating a perfect contrast of delicious pain to the pleasure his lips are giving you.  
  
The kiss lasts until you’re both completely breathless.  The monitors are screaming as the bio bed registers Leonard’s elevated heart rate and you reach over blindly toward the console, shutting the whole thing down. In the peace and quiet that follows, you catch your breath and pull away just enough to look up at Leonard.  He’s smiling down at you.  
  
“Let’s go talk to M’Benga,” he suggests. “The sooner he clears us, the sooner we can get out of here and get on with our lives.”  
  
You nod and hold out a hand to him, stepping aside as he hops off of the bed.  You keep his hand clasped in yours as the two of you make your way back to the front of the isolation quarters.  You’re still latched on when Leonard comms Geoff and the other doctor arrives, smiling at the two of you.  
  
“Good news, I trust?”  He says, beaming.  
  
The two of you nod in unison.  
  
“A couple of side effects, but nothing catastrophic,” Leonard explains.  “Both of our crits are down in the 40s after treatment.  They were in the low sixties this morning.”  
  
“That’s great!”  Dr. M’Benga exclaims, glancing over his shoulder as he hears a noise behind him, realizing the captain is approaching.  
  
“You two look a lot better than you did this morning,” he says with a chipper grin.  “I take it the crisis has been averted?”  
  
“Aye, Captain,” you assure him.  “Looks like we’re in the clear.”  
  
“Great!”  He says brightly.  “Join me for dinner; we can celebrate!”  
  
“Not so fast,” Dr. M’Benga chimes in.  “I’d like to keep them in isolation for another day or two, just to be sure the pathogen has been eradicated and not just become dormant.”  
  
He turns his attention to the two of you as your expressions fall at the thought of being locked up even longer.  
  
“I’d like for you two to draw some bloods,” he instructs.  “The lab can confirm that the virus has been eradicated.  I’d like you both to have complete physicals to ensure no damage has been done, and I’d like to monitor you both once daily for another week, or longer as needed.  It’s probably being over-cautious, but I’d rather not risk anything.”  
  
You groan inwardly but you can admit he’s right.  You nod, looking up at Leonard with a smile.  
  
“I think we can handle that,” you agree, exchanging a glance with your boyfriend.  “What’s another day, right?”  
  
Jim laughs, getting your attention.  
  
“Get some rest while you have the chance,” he says with a wink.  “I want you two right back at your posts as soon as Dr. M’Benga gives you the all-clear. Now, I’ve got to get back to the bridge. I’ll see you soon.”  
  
He turns on his heel and makes his way off, pausing and glancing over his shoulder, a genuine smile on his face, relief in his eyes.  
  
“I’m glad you two are okay,” he says softly. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without my two best doctors.”  
  
You watch him beat a hasty retreat after the little slip up of sentiment and bid Dr. M’Benga a farewell, too.  Once he’s gone, the two of you head back to the exam room you’d taken your cures in.  It doesn’t take you long to draw bloods and you clean up the equipment you’d used as Leonard goes to deliver the vials for pick up.  
  
Returning to the inpatient room where you and Leonard had been sleeping for the duration of your quarantine, you make your way to the bed you’ve been sharing where Leonard is waiting, an unspoken  _we’ll worry about everything else tomorrow_  passing between the two of you.  
  
It’s getting late and you’re both exhausted, not only after the day’s events, but after the whole ordeal.  Leonard gestures for you to climb into bed and once you’re settled he follows.  You sigh contentedly, tucking yourself in against his side, resting your head on his chest so you can hear his steady heartbeat beneath your ear.  You know that even though you’re in the clear, there’s a lot the two of you need to talk about if you’re going to have a future together.  For now, however, all you want it so be able to sleep without thoughts of your own mortality, and Leonard’s, hanging over your head.  
  
“Let’s forget this ever happened,” you murmur sleepily.  
  
“Deal,” Leonard says softly, reaching out with his free hand to pull a couple of blankets up to cover the two of you.  “Get some sleep, darlin’.  Sweet dreams.”  
  
“Mmm, your heartbeat’s like a lullaby,” you sigh, snuggling into his chest for emphasis.  “G’night, Lee.”  
  
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies, pressing a kiss into your hair, drifting off into dream land right alongside you.


	25. Y is for Yeast Infection

“C’mon, Chris, do me a solid,” you beg your best friend.  
  
Christine Chapel smiles wryly at you, her overall expression apologetic.  You’ve been suffering from itching in a very sensitive spot for days, and as of this morning, you’ve added discharge to your repertoire.  You’ve been dancing around the issue for a while now, hoping it would just go away on its own, but you can’t take it anymore.  You’re pleading with the nurse, hoping she can help you so that you can avoid what you’re sure will be an awkward and terminally embarrassing visit with your lover and the ship’s chief medical officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy.  
  
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” she says softly.  “I can’t just give you the cream.  Up here in the void, we’ve got to keep a detailed log of our inventory, and that means I can’t sign any meds out without a doctor’s approval.  To get that, I’d need to have him see you.”

“Can’t you just take a look?”  You ask – better her than  _him_.  
  
She shakes her head.  
  
“I could, but it wouldn’t make a difference,” she says gently.  “The doctor would have to take a look, regardless, so you might as well wait for him.”  
  
As though your conversation has summoned him, Leonard appears from around the corner, joining the two of you at the main desk.  
  
“Wait for whom?”  He asks, smiling and leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. “Who is it my two favorite ladies are talking about?”  
  
Chris rolls her eyes as you turn red over how close he’s come to overhearing your discussion.  
  
“Why, you, of course,” Christine says with a sly smile.  “Y/N’s been pining after you for the last ten minutes.”  
  
Leonard cocks an eyebrow, turning his searching hazel gaze on you.  
  
“You must be missing me if you’re willing to hang around here waiting for me,” he says with a chuckle, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your expression as you shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.  “Are you alright?”  
  
“Fine,” you say too quickly, earning yourself another quizzical eyebrow.  
  
“Alright,” he says lightly, very clearly not believing you.  “I’ve got some charting to wrap up and Dr. M’Benga’s running a few minutes late for the next shift, but I’ll be ready to go once he gets here.  Do you want to come wait in my office?”  
  
You shake your head a little too vehemently.  
  
“I’ll wait out here,” you rush.  “Chris and I have some catching up to do.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Leonard says with a shrug, picking up his PADD.  “I’ll see you soon.”  
  
You smile at him as he turns away and heads to his office, the smile sliding right off of your face the second he’s gone. You turn back to Chris, wide-eyed and rattled.  
  
“So, where were we?”  You say dryly.  “Oh, right, you were going to help me.”  
  
Christine rolls her eyes.  
  
“Would you be open to talking to Dr. M’Benga?” She asks.  “He should be in right away.  He could have you seen and treated before Dr. McCoy is finished his charting; he’ll never be the wiser.”  
  
You hem, haw, and deliberate for several long moments before finally nodding with a sigh.  Christine smiles at you encouragingly and sends you into an empty exam room.  You make yourself at home on the bio bed, blushing in anticipation of the encounter that’s to come.  
  
Nearly fifteen minutes pass with you sitting there, swinging your legs.  You’re getting more and more anxious the longer you sit there, but you refuse to emerge lest you run into Leonard.  
  
As you sit and wait, the CMO steps out of his office.  He glances around as he crosses the floor to the central desk and turns his attention to Christine when he doesn’t find you.  
  
“Where’s Y/N?”  He asks.  
  
Christine’s face is impassive as she turns to face him.  
  
“She’s headed out to freshen up,” she replies. “Said she’d meet you in your quarters.”  
  
He nods, apparently satisfied.  
  
“Geoff hasn’t arrived yet?”  He queries.  
  
Christine shakes her head.  He’s about to pick up his comm and send the other doctor a message when he notices the occupied light on next to a nearby exam room.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me we had a patient?” He questions, gesturing to the door.  
  
“It’s nothing urgent,” Christine answers quickly.  “I told them it would be a few minutes.  I didn’t want to bother you, and they’re happy to wait for Dr. M’Benga.”  
  
Undeterred, Leonard turns and heads toward the exam room in question, waving off the nurse’s concern.  
  
“I’ve got it,” he offers.  
  
You hear his voice from outside the room and your eyes widen in horror as the door slides open.  You catch a glimpse of Christine in the moment before Leonard’s body fills the doorway and she’s mouthing a hurried and desperate  _sorry_. Your gaze finds the doctor’s and his expression turns to surprise, too.  
  
“Y/N,” he says lightly.  “What are you doing in here, darlin’?  Is everything okay?”  
  
You’re sitting completely still as he steps into the room and slides the door closed before crossing to your side.  He’s about to activate the bio bed but you reach out and grasp his sleeve, stopping him.  His expression becomes more concerned as he notices how flushed you look and he reaches out to take your hands in his, squeezing them gently.  
  
“What is it?”  He asks.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  
  
“It’s not a big deal,” you assure him.  “I didn’t tell you because… it’s embarrassing.”  
  
You murmur the last two words and Leonard has to lean in very close to you to catch them.  His eyebrows are furrowed, his demeanor one of curiosity as he leans away again to look at you.  
  
“What’s so embarrassing that you’re keeping it from me like this?”  He questions further, his tone gentle, coaxing.  
  
You shift in place, uncomfortable in every sense of the word.  
  
“Ithnkihvaystinfctn,” you murmur.  
  
“Let’s try that again,” Leonard says with a soft chuckle.  “Slow down, darlin’.”  
  
You take a breath, let it out in a huff, and swallow thickly.  
  
“I think I have a yeast infection,” you reiterate with a little more clarity.  
  
Leonard lets go of your hands and reaches up to gently nudge beneath your chin, encouraging you to look up.  You do so reluctantly and meet his gaze, feeling just a  _little bit_ mortified to be discussing something so personal and, in your opinion, wholly disgusting with a man who’s shared your bed.  
  
“That’s it?”  He asks with a smile.  “That’s what all the fuss is about?”  
  
You narrow your eyes and set your jaw, a little miffed at his flippance.  
  
“Not all of us are accustomed to discussing such intimate issues with your sort of clinical detachment,  _doctor_ ,” you spit, hackles raised.  
  
His demeanor softens at your tone and he reaches up to gently run a hand through your hair, soothing you.  
  
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he amends.  “I know it must have been hard coming to me.”  
  
“Just so we’re clear, I  _didn’t_  actually come to you,” you grouse.  “I was waiting for M’Benga.”  
  
“Even so, I’m glad you decided to get yourself checked,” he murmurs.  “So tell me, what kinds of symptoms are you having?”  
  
Your heart sinks as you begin to list what’s bothering you: itching, burning, and discharge.  You wrinkle your nose as you speak, the words feeling awkward as they come off of your tongue, and you avert your gaze again.  You hope that by looking anywhere but into Leonard’s eyes, you can delay the inevitable exam.  
  
“That sounds pretty standard,” he comments as you fall silent, giving you a quick once-over with a tricorder he’s produced from somewhere while you weren’t looking and glancing at the screen.  “And I’m finding no signs of a urinary tract infection.  Your self-diagnosis seems to be right on par.  A single-dose tablet and some cream and you’ll be good as new in a couple of days.”  
  
Your head snaps up at his words.  
  
“That’s it?”  You ask.  “You don’t need to… examine me?”  
  
“Is that what you were so worried about?” Leonard asks.  “Sweetheart, between your history and my tricorder, that’s all said and done.”  
  
You groan and drop your face into your palms, shaking with silent laughter.  You feel Leonard’s hand land on your shoulder and stroke there gently.  
  
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he teases. “Next time you’re worried about coming to me with something, just do it and we’ll get it figure out, regardless of what it is.”  
  
You nod silently and don’t look up until Leonard excuses himself to fetch your medication.  You hop down from the bio bed when he returns, taking the proffered tablet with a sip of water and stowing the cream in your uniform pocket for later use.  He takes your hand and leads you out of the exam room, waving to Geoff as the other doctor finally arrives.  You glance over at Chris on your way past the desk and shoot her a look that says  _we’re going to have words later_  as you wonder whether a little more clarification could have spared you a whole lot of trepidation.  
  
To Leonard’s credit, he doesn’t mention the incident again.  He’s the picture of discretion and you’re grateful for it.  Any other man would likely have teased you good-naturedly about the whole thing, but Leonard’s far too thoughtful for that sort of thing. You excuse yourself to the washroom as the two of you get ready for bed and put on some of the cream he’s prescribed.   
  
That night, between the calming of the itch at last and the warm, protective arm Leonard has draped over you, you sleep like a baby for the first time in days.


	26. Z is for Zoonotic Disease

Your vision is fuzzy around the edges and your hearing is vaguely muffled as you walk unsteadily over the threshold into med bay.  You’ve been feeling unwell for days with an on-again, off-again high fever, cough, aches, and chills, and while you’d initially thought you’d had the flu, a visit to the med bay a couple of days earlier had revealed instead that it was pneumonia plaguing you.  At that time, you’d been given an antibiotic and asked by Dr. M’Benga to follow up once a day for a quick assessment to see how you were progressing, and so as ordered, you’re shuffling into med bay for a daily check, feeling worse than ever.  
  
“Y/N,” Dr. M’Benga calls from several feet away as he sees you wander in.  “Come over this way, let’s sit you down.”  
  
The tone of his voice suggests that you look as bad as you feel and you slowly make your way over to the bio bed he’s standing beside and allow him to help you up onto it.  Lying back, blinking away the harsh overhead lighting, you relax as he begins an assessment.  Your head aches so badly that its affecting your hearing, and even so near your head the whirring of the tricorder sounds like it’s coming from underwater.    
  
“You’re not responding to the antibiotic,” Dr. M’Benga explains as he holds a holoscanner over your chest, looking at the x-ray image there showing him patchy consolidation in your lungs.  “We need to keep you here and isolated until we figure out exactly what kind of a bug you’ve got.”

You groan at his words, wanting nothing more than your own warm, comfortable bed away from all the white and chrome, the background noise, and the antiseptic smell.  His hand lands on your shoulder and squeezes gently.  
  
“I’m going to have Nurse Chapel move you into a private room and help you into a gown,” he offers.  “I want to have Dr. McCoy come to see you as well.  His expertise might help me to get you feeling better sooner, if that’s alright with you.”  
  
Your heart begins to beat a frantic allegro in your chest at the CMO’s mention.  You’ve been seeing one another on and off for a while, but haven’t exchanged any deep, meaningful sentiments.  Still, you’re involved enough that you chose Dr. M’Benga over him in order to avoid awkwardness and impropriety.  You know, however, that if Dr. M’Benga is seeking the other doctor’s counsel on your case, things must be bad, and while you really don’t want things to be uncomfortable, you’d also like to get better as soon as possible, and so you agree with a single nod.  
  
Things happen quickly after that.  Dr. M’Benga disappears from your bedside and is replaced with a softly smiling Christine Chapel.  She’s gentle with you as she half-leads, half-carries you over to an isolation room off the main wing of the med bay.  She murmurs soft reassurances as you’re changed into a thin, light patient gown and settled into bed with only a single blanket for warmth –  _we don’t want to feed that fever, dear_.  The head of the bed is propped up so you can breathe more easily and before you know it, a soft knock sounds against the door panel and Dr. M’Benga is striding into the room, closely followed by Dr. McCoy.  
  
“Y/N,” the CMO says softly, approaching your bedside, his eyes quickly taking in the numbers displayed on the bio bed’s readout.  “I wish you’d told me you were sick.”  
  
“Didn’t want to worry you,” you mumble, the fever making clear speech a challenge.  “S’not that bad.”  
  
His low grumble is nearly inaudible but his expression is clearly unimpressed.  You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he repeats the scan Dr. M’Benga had done earlier, his features marring with concern.    
  
“Administer an albuterol neb, then keep her on two litres of oxygen,” he orders Christine.  “Start a course of genericillin, and give her numinol tetramidaphin q four hours.”  
  
“Wouldn’t you rather use a tryptophan-lysine distillate?”  Dr. M’Benga asks.  “The corophizine hasn’t even touched the infection.”  
  
The CMO shakes his head, setting the holoscanner aside.  
  
“We’ll save the big guns for when we need them,” he replies.  “Genericillin will be fine until a culture proves otherwise.  I’ve got this, Doctor; please, leave me with my patient.”  
  
You can’t help but tune out more of their discussion as Christine steps into your line of sight and applies an oxygen mask to your face.  There is medication mixed in with the oxygen – you know just by the taste of it as it hits your tongue – and you’re glad to see that breathing is becoming easier by the moment.  She’s gentle as she places an IV in your arm and injects the medications Dr. McCoy has ordered.  She’s done quickly and leaving you alone with him – it seems he’s finally convinced Dr. M’Benga to leave the two of you be, too.  
  
As the door slides shut on Christine’s exit, Leonard approaches your bed and perches on the edge of it, reaching out to cup your cheek with his large, warm palm.  Your eyes drift closed and you sigh, the mask on your face fogging with your breath.  
  
“Next time you get sick, you leave it to me to decide how bad it is,” he admonishes softly.  “You’re lucky you came in when you did today.”  
  
“Am I gonna live, doc?”  You ask jokingly, your voice hoarse.  
  
“You’ll be fine,” Leonard assures you. “But we need to figure out what’s making you sick so we can treat you with the right antibiotics.  Do you think you’re up for answering some questions?”  
  
You nod, watching the doctor as he reaches to remove the mask from your face, replacing it instead with a much more comfortable and manageable nasal cannula.  Its soft prongs tickle a bit as they’re seated into place, but you barely notice them after a few moments.  What you notice instead are Leonard’s warm, gentle hands coming to rest on your neck, his fingertips prodding, feeling how swollen your lymph nodes are, how hot your feverish skin is.  
  
“Tell me everything you’ve been experiencing since this started,” the CMO  instructs.  
  
He steps away from your bedside for a moment, returning with a stethoscope.  He offers you a hand to help you sit up a bit and immediately begins his exam, not wanting you to be sitting up for too long.  You consider his query as he asks you to take the occasional deep breath, resisting the urge to cough.  
  
“It started off with a fever and aches four days ago,” you begin as Leonard finishes up and helps you settle back against the bed.  “I came in and saw Dr. M’Benga and he gave me an antibiotic to take.  Since then, my fever has come and gone.  I’ve had a constant headache and a bad cough, too.”  
  
The doctor makes a noncommittal noise and works efficiently, keeping you covered nearly to the waist with the blanket while simultaneously pulling your gown up so he can press on your abdomen. His expression becomes even more concerned when he glances down as he thoroughly but carefully palpates your stomach but you’re distracted from the look by a sharp jolt of pain as his hand prods at the left side of your abdomen.  
  
“When did you get this rash?”  He asks, pulling his hand away and gesturing to your midsection.  
  
You gasp as you glance down and notice a very dark and angry-looking red rash around your navel and off to either side.  
  
“It wasn’t there this morning,” you reply. “I didn’t see it when I got dressed a few hours ago.”  
  
Leonard makes another noise of consideration and pulls your gown down, tucking it back in under the blanket and pulling out a tricorder.  He scans you quickly, pausing over your chest and abdomen briefly before reading through the results.  The decrease in white blood cells and platelets and the increase in liver enzymes in your bloodstream worries him.  
  
“I think this is more than garden variety pneumonia,” he explains.  “I’m going to look through your file and talk to Dr. M’Benga.  I’ll send Christine in to get some samples for analysis and I’ll be back to see you in a bit.  In the meantime, try to get some rest.”  
  
You sigh and nod once again, turning your gaze away from the CMO and to the ceiling.  You’ll never admit it, but his concern and the lack of the toldja-so attitude he always gets whenever you’ve neglected your health are worrying you. You haven’t given his observational skills enough credit, though, you realize a moment later as his hand lands on your shoulder and squeezes reassuringly.  
  
“I’ll get you sorted out, kid,” he promises.  
  
“We’ve slept together and you’re still calling me kid?”  You huff. “Gee, thanks, doc.”  
  
Leonard chuckles softly and brushes a stray strand of hair back behind your ear.  
  
“Sick to death and you’ve still got an attitude,” the doctor ribs good-naturedly.  “Yeah, you’re going to be just fine.”  
  
He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before taking his leave.  It doesn’t take you long to drift off to sleep and aside from Christine coming in to check on you and get the samples Leonard had mentioned, the next few hours pass uneventfully.  You doze off and on in between bouts of coughing, and you finally rouse to the sounds of frantic orders being exchanged elsewhere in the med bay – the product of an accident down in engineering.  
  
Shifting around, you slowly sit up, shivering as a cold draft licks at your back where your gown has parted a bit. The shiver leads to a paroxysm of coughs, and suddenly hurried footsteps are approaching your bedside as the monitors begin to sound an alarm.  A warm hand lands on your back and you’re sure it’s Leonard’s, even though you’re coughing so hard your eyes are screwed tightly shut.  The hand rubs gentle circles into your skin, warming it where the draft had left a chill, and he murmurs reassurances as the hacking passes.  
  
“Take deep breaths in through your nose for me, sugar,” Leonard instructs you.  “We need to get your oxygen levels up.”  
  
It’s a struggle at first as every inhalation tickles at your throat and makes you want to cough again, but eventually your breathing grows easier and the monitors quiet down, signalling your stabilization.  You glance up at Leonard wearily as you collapse back against the raised head of your bed and you’re grateful when he reaches for a cloth and begins to gently sponge at your feverish forehead.  
  
“Do you know what’s wrong with me yet?” You ask.  
  
Leonard shakes his head.  
  
“You’ve only been out a couple of hours,” he replies.  “It’ll take a little longer than that to get a comprehensive analysis back.  I just need you to sit tight and let us take care of you in the meantime.”  
  
You nod, resigned to your fate, and shut your eyes.  Your lips quirk up in a small smile as you recall your last away mission two weeks ago. For once things had gone smoothly, and you’d had plenty of time to visit a number of Hanon IV’s protected wildlife refuges to observe the xenofauna there.  Many of them had been remarkably unique, but many more still were very similar to Terran animals, and you feel at home as you picture a flock of starlings dancing around, a murmuration passing overhead as you’d collected some samples for analysis.  
  
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”  He asks, having caught sight of your expression.  
  
“Birds,” you reply softly.  
  
“Birds?”  He queries further.  
  
“Back on Hanon IV,” you explain, licking your dry, cracked lips, sipping gratefully from a cup of ice water Leonard offers you when he sees how parched you are.  “There were birds everywhere.  It reminded me of Earth, of home.  Their evolutionary history and adaptations were remarkably similar to those of Terran birds, and I can’t wait to get back to my lab to keep working on my samples.”  
  
“Have you found anything interesting so far?” Leonard asks, attentive though his eyes are taking in the numbers on the bio bed again, ensuring your condition is stable.  
  
“Nothing earth shattering,” you reply, taking in a slow, deep, shaky breath, rejoicing when it doesn’t lead to more coughing.  “Some of the feathers we collected show signs of poor health in certain individuals, which could indicate parasitism or infection, but nothing you wouldn’t expect with a large population of birds.”  
  
You close you eyes as Leonard reaches up and gently strokes your hair, his touch soothing you.  You think back on those samples you’ve just mentioned and you suck in a breath as something dawns on you, this time eliciting a paroxysm of coughs.  Leonard soothes you through them, and once you’ve caught your breath, you look up at him, having had an epiphany.  
  
“I need to contact the ornithology lab on Hanon IV,” you say.  “I have an idea.  It’s crazy, maybe, but worth a shot.”  
  
Leonard stares you down with a trademark quirk of his eyebrow.  
  
“There are some diseases that can be transmitted between humans and animals, right?”  You ask.  
  
Leonard nods.  
  
“Sure,” he replies.  “Zoonotic illnesses – lyme disease, tularemia, you name it. Why?  What are you thinking?”  
  
“Psittacosis,” you offer.  “It can be passed between humans and animals, it would explain some of the signs of illness I’ve found in my samples, and it shows up as pneumonia in people, doesn’t it?”  
  
Leonard’s eyebrows furrow in contemplation for a few moments and you can practically hear the gears turning as he takes your symptoms and history of exposure into consideration.  
  
“It does,’ he replies eventually.  “And while I can’t pretend to be an expert on it, I think it might explain some of my other findings, too.”  
  
His hand leaves your hair where it’s been stroking the stands for the last several minutes as he straightens up and you follow him with your gaze; you’re not getting up any time soon.  
  
“There’s no need for you to go to the trouble of contacting the lab; I’m going to have the lab here test for the  _Chlamydophila psittaci_  antigen in your samples,” Leonard explains.  “I’ll be back the moment I know anything.  If you’re right, which I’m reasonably sure you are, the antibiotic we’ve switched you to should do the trick.”  
  
You nod in understanding as he speaks and return the smile he shoots you before turning to leave you once again.  With him gone, you let your eyes drift closed and you listen to the steady beep of the overhead monitor, one for every one of your heartbeats.  It’s a rhythmic, hypnotic sort of metronome and it quickly lulls you off to sleep. This time, you don’t even twitch when Christine comes in to give you another round of medication, nor do you hear Leonard’s footsteps return to your bedside.  
  
Your awakening this time is much more gentle, though you’re confused for a moment at the feeling of a warm weight on your shoulder.  Blinking through the waking fog of a fading dream, you focus on the form at your bedside and allow yourself to feel reassured by his touch even before you realize it’s Leonard.  
  
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he says softly, squeezing your shoulder gently.  “How’s my little genius feeling?”  
  
“Your little genius?”  You croak, your voice still thick with sleep and strained from all the coughing.  
  
“Your diagnosis was right on the money, sugar,” Leonard explains.  “And the good news is that psittacosis isn’t very contagious, so once we’ve got you stabilized a little better and your fever’s broken, you can spend the rest of your recovery in your quarters.”  
  
You’re elated to hear it, but something about his words catches your attention.  
  
“If it’s not very contagious, how did I get it?”  You ask.  
  
Leonard laughs softly.  
  
“Not very doesn’t mean not at all,” he reasons. “And it’s easier to catch from wildlife than it is to catch from another person.  You probably inhaled some aerosolized droppings that contained the bacteria at the sanctuary.”  
  
You wrinkle your nose in disgust at the thought, earning yourself another good-natured chuckle from the doctor.  
  
“However it happened, it doesn’t matter now,” Leonard assures you.  “All you need to worry about now is resting, breathing, and getting better.”  
  
You smile tiredly and nod, patting the bed beside you.  
  
“With the Federation’s best doctor here to take care of me, I know I’ll make a full recovery,” you say confidently.  
  
You shift over as he moves to join you on the bed and snuggle into his chest as he lays down at your side.  The metronomic beeping of your heart monitor is quickly replaced in your ear by the sound of Leonard’s heartbeat at your cheek and you sigh in contentment as you almost immediately find yourself being pulled back into the slumber you’d been awakened from a short while before. 


End file.
